


Adventures of a Suicidal Gentleman

by GallaPlacidia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Down and Out Draco Malfoy, Draco and his new best friend Misty the house elf, Draco is trying to keep his shit together, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts Eighth Year, It's less harrowing than it initially appears, M/M, Pining Harry, Suicidal Thoughts, Veritaserum, suicidal Draco but he's fun about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:09:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 47,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24150358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallaPlacidia/pseuds/GallaPlacidia
Summary: Draco wants to kill himself, but he's trying not to be dramatic about it. Harry wants to sleep with Draco, but he's trying not to be obvious about it. Misunderstandings! Pining! Grief! Self-loathing but in a kind of charming way?Feat. Misty the house elf who takes shit from no one, an Astoria who has her own mysterious aims, a Draco who is determined to use humour to get through things, and a Harry doesn't know what he wants, except maybe to touch Draco's pretty face.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 936
Kudos: 3013





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

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Harry wore his invisibility cloak as he wove through the swarms of people. They were in post-battle shock, still. Some stood in silent groups of twos or threes, observing the dead. Others sang brittle, militaristic songs of victory. He followed them as they trickled inexorably towards the great hall.

He couldn’t find Ron or Hermione or Ginny. Instead, he found what appeared to be an impromptu court room. On one side of the great hall were half a dozen Death Eaters, heavily bound and guarded. On the other, a pile of bodies, including that of Lucius Malfoy. The crowd bayed murderously for revenge. Mundungus Fletcher, turned Supreme Judge, had his wand pointed at Draco Malfoy. 

“On the basis, then, of his mother’s words, we declare Draco Malfoy innocent!” he shouted, and Malfoy was thrust unceremoniously into his mother’s arms. “Next up: Gregory Goyle!”

“Guilty!” shouted the crowd. 

Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked a young girl, probably no older than fifteen, whose face was contorted with vengeful anger. 

“Justice!” she said, without looking at him.

Harry started elbowing his way to the front of the crowd. He could scarcely hear Mundungus over the rumbling fury of the mob. Then he heard Malfoy’s voice, high and frightened.

“He’s more innocent than I am,” said Malfoy. It was becoming easier for Harry to push his way forward as people noticed who he was and started making way with reverent, hushed noises. 

Malfoy had broken free of his mother’s arms and thrust himself between Goyle and a wizard wearing a makeshift hood over his face who had his wand pointed at Malfoy’s heart. 

“I pushed him into everything,” said Malfoy. “I pressured him to become a Death Eater. If I’m innocent, he is too.”

Narcissa Malfoy was crying uncontrollably into a dirty handkerchief.

Mundungus considered. 

“All right,” he said. “Have it your way. Both guilty. Allowicious?” 

The wizard in the hood nodded. Harry was still trying to get past a final few witches at the front of the mob. He saw Malfoy’s hand reach for Goyle’s, saw Goyle take it and squeeze.

“Ava—” began the executioner.

“Stop!” said Harry, finally, finally getting to Malfoy’s side. “This is _insane!_ Stop!”

 _Harry Potter_ , the crowd began to chant. 

“Go home!” shouted Harry, but no one was _listening_. He turned to Mundungus, but Mundungus had fled. The crowd was pressing closer, closer, and Harry realised that if he didn’t act soon, he would be swept up in it, cut off from Malfoy, and there was every chance that he would be murdered before Harry could get to him again.

Harry was so fucking tired of saving people. 

“Come on,” he said to Malfoy, grabbing his wrist. Malfoy obeyed him instantly, seeming to take it for granted that Harry was going to save him, just as he had in the Room of Requirement. Goyle and Narcissa followed him in a chain. 

The crowd began to thin, not able to keep up with Harry as he darted and swerved. Malfoy’s wrist was bony in his hand. He was saying something, over and over, but Harry couldn’t make it out. Finally, they were far enough away from the great hall that he could hear the words.

“They killed _Father_ ,” Malfoy was saying, his voice high and unsteady. “They killed him.”

Harry glanced backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Malfoy looked at him but didn’t seem to see him. 

“They killed him,” he said again.

“That was brave of you. Standing up for Goyle,” said Harry. 

“They killed Father,” said Malfoy. 

“There!” came a voice from down the corridor. “Death Eaters! Avada Kadavra!”

It was so quick and neat. Narcissa stepped in front of Malfoy without any fuss, as if she was standing up to collect an order from the counter of a coffee shop. She did not look frightened. She did not even seem to think or decide. She simply stepped in front of her son, was hit by the curse, and fell to the floor, dead. 

Malfoy was suddenly and horribly silent. 

Harry stunned the person who had cast the curse— he couldn’t see who it was, they were just a dim figure—and cast spells blocking off the corridor at both ends. 

“Fucking hell,” he said.

Malfoy was still holding Goyle’s hand. 

“I’m sorry, Draco,” said Goyle, in his clumsy voice. 

“We need to get you to the aurors,” said Harry. He felt numb. He couldn’t imagine how Malfoy felt. “Everyone’s gone fucking insane.”

“We can’t leave her,” said Goyle. 

“The Cloisters,” said Malfoy, unexpectedly. “There won’t be anyone there.”

“You can’t _stay_ here,” said Harry. “You need to get out of Hogwarts. You’ll be killed.”

Goyle let go of Malfoy’s hand and picked up Narcissa as gently as if she were a sleeping child. Malfoy’s Adam’s apple bobbed crazily up and down his throat as he watched. 

“You don’t have to come with us, Potter,” he said. “But we’re burying my mother in the Cloisters.”

Harry pressed his fingers into the balls of his eyes, which pulsed unpleasantly. 

“Merlin. Okay. Goyle, you use the cloak.”

“What?” asked Goyle. Harry ignored him and swept the invisibility cloak over Goyle. He was so large, especially holding Narcissa, that there was no chance it would cover Malfoy as well. 

“Malfoy, you just… I don’t know, stick close to me. We’ll have to move fast.” 

Malfoy nodded and held out a hand. It made Harry’s head spin, to see Malfoy look at him like that, blankly and trustingly. The world was upside down. 

They skirted through the shadows, avoiding everyone, several times darting into empty classrooms to wait for loud groups of people to rampage past them. It took them fifteen minutes to reach the Cloisters, but, as Malfoy had predicted, they were empty. The stone courtyard was silent and serene. Goyle deposited Narcissa gently on the cobbles beneath the lone, graceful tree at the centre of the courtyard. 

Harry transfigured a rock into a shovel and tried to give it to Malfoy, who shook his head.

“Don’t you want…” said Harry, thinking of Dobby; how he had _needed_ to dig that grave himself.

But Malfoy raised his wand— his mother’s wand, Harry realised with a jolt—and began casting. With meticulous spellwork, he lifted the cobblestones one by one and kept them floating in the air. Then he sliced into the damp clay, a chunk of it rising out of the earth as if it were a rich piece of chocolate cake, leaving a hole six feet deep and three feet wide. With a gentle movement of his wand, the cobblestones and the clay sank slowly to rest beside the hole, waiting to return to their places when they were needed. It was slow, careful magic, not the sort Harry had ever been very good at. 

Malfoy stared into the grave. 

“I can’t do a good levitating charm, Draco,” said Goyle. 

Malfoy looked up, as if he had forgotten anyone else was there. He shook his head, went to where his mother lay, and knelt at her side. He pushed her hair out of her face. He cast a gentle cleaning charm and slipped his arms under her so that he could lift her up.

He was unsteady on his feet, but he stumbled over to the dark grave he had made with his mother in his arms. 

“You should levitate her, Draco,” said Goyle. Malfoy shook his head again. He sat gingerly at the edge of the hole, clinging to his mother’s body, and jumped.

“Fuck,” he said when he landed, falling over instantly.

“You okay?” asked Goyle.

Malfoy didn’t answer. He hobbled to his feet and laid his mother out in the earth. Her eyes were closed, and she looked peaceful. Malfoy crouched over her, whispering.

Harry couldn’t bear to look any more. He walked around the covered walkways of the Cloisters, round and round, waiting for Malfoy to emerge. 

“Draco,” said Goyle, eventually. Harry went to join him at the rim of the grave. Malfoy lay next to Narcissa, his face in her neck.

“Bury me,” he said.

Harry sat, dangling his legs over the edge of the grave. He held out his hand. 

“Come on, Malfoy,” he said. 

Malfoy didn’t answer. He wasn’t moving.

“We need to get Goyle away. He’s in danger, and he won’t leave if you don’t,” said Harry. 

Malfoy hesitated, then nodded. He had a strand of his mother’s hair coiled tightly around his fist. It was another five minutes before he stood. He seemed to have hurt his ankle when he landed. 

“Take my hand,” said Harry, and Malfoy obeyed him. After a fair bit of undignified scrambling, he managed to clamber out of the hole. He got to his feet and limped away, his shoulders moving quickly up and down. 

“I’ll make a mess of it,” said Goyle, gesturing towards the clay, the cobblestones.

“I’ll do it,” said Harry. He tried to keep his magic as slow and careful as Malfoy’s had been, lowering the earth over Narcissa’s body, settling the cobblestones back in place. He transfigured one into a headstone. 

“Don’t put her name,” said Goyle. Harry frowned, but Goyle was probably right. He didn’t like to think how the grave might be desecrated, if people knew a Malfoy was buried there.

 _Loving mother_ , Harry carved. And then he remembered something about a narcissus being a type of pretty yellow flower. He was tired, and angry, and sad down to his bones, but he forced himself to focus. 

The flower bed he made wasn’t neat, but it was thick with narcissuses, bright and sunny like spring. 

“It’s done,” he called out to Draco. Draco turned around and limped back to them without lifting his eyes from his feet. When he reached Harry, he finally looked at the headstone.

He looked and looked, his eyes wide. Goyle wrapped an arm around his waist.

“It’ll be okay, yeah? We’ll be okay, won’t we, Draco?” asked Goyle.

“Yeah,” said Draco, his voice dry and cracked. “‘Course we will. Don’t be stupid.”

“We need to go,” said Harry. Draco glanced sideways at him and nodded.

“Just a little longer,” he said. But Harry could hear raucous, unhinged laughter somewhere through the Cloisters.

“It isn’t safe,” said Harry. “You can come back, Draco. Another time, yeah?”

Draco turned his head to look at him. His expression was puzzled, as if he was genuinely surprised at Harry’s stupidity.

“I’m going to Azkaban for life, Potter.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Harry. Draco made a huffing sound and turned back to his mother’s headstone.

“Is that true, Draco?” asked Goyle. “Are we going to Azkaban?”

Draco’s expression shifted.

“No,” he said, soothingly. “Of course not. I’ll explain about you, Greg. Don’t worry.”

Goyle sagged with relief. 

“Harry, is that you?”

Harry turned around. It was Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

“Don’t hurt them!” he said, because Kingsley had his wand out. Kingsley cast an incarcerous at Goyle and Draco and collected their wands. 

“I’m not going to hurt them,” he said. “I’m going to take them to the Ministry. The crowd’s getting… demanding.”

“They’re butchering people,” said Harry.

“We’ve got aurors on it,” said Kingsley. “Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Goyle, are you willing to co-operate, or do I have to stun you?”

“We’ll co-operate,” said Draco. 

“Is my Dad okay?” asked Goyle.

“We have him in custody,” said Kingsley. Draco smiled.

“See?” he said to Goyle. “I told you.”

“What’s going to happen to them?” asked Harry.

“All Marked Death Eaters will be held without bail until trial.” Then, seeing that this answer didn’t seem to have satisfied Harry, Kingsley smiled. “I’ll be overlooking their treatment myself, Harry. You can stop worrying about saving the world.”

Both Draco and Goyle seemed to have forgotten Harry was even there. They allowed Kingsley to take them by the elbow and then the three of them were gone, on their way to the Ministry by portkey. Harry stood alone in the Cloisters, a sick, tired feeling in his gut. 

——————

The weeks that followed had the mechanical horror of a nightmare. Funerals, cups of tea, people congratulating him. 

“I get why you’re speaking for Malfoy,” said Ron, “but _Goyle?”_

“He’s just thick,” said Harry. “He’s just a not very smart kid who got swept up in a war.”

“He tried to kill us!”

“I know, I just…”

“I agree with Harry,” said Hermione. “I’ll speak for him too.”

“He was so… _sweet_ , about Draco’s mum,” said Harry. He had described what had happened, although he found himself unable to fully explain the blankness on Draco’s face. He had dreams about it, dreams which didn’t feature Draco at all, just a whiteness that blotted out the sky and woke him up with their emptiness. He would sit up and remember Draco lying in his mother’s grave and wonder what it was like to watch your mother die for you. Although he knew, of course, didn’t he? He had seen that same sight, even if he couldn’t remember it. 

In the end, their willingness to talk at Goyle’s trial came to nothing. All Marked Death Eaters were condemned to a minimum of five years in Azkaban. Not even Draco’s stilted testimony saying that he had practically forced Goyle to join the Death Eaters made a difference

Draco was the only Death Eater who escaped prison. Harry, Ron and Hermione all testified that he had deliberately lied to save their lives. Dean and Luna came forward, too. They had apparently overheard him trying to quit the Death Eaters and being punished by his father. 

He was sentenced to a year’s limited magic and given a hefty fine. Beyond that, he was free. He stood blinking in the docket as the verdict was read out, and did not look at Harry once. Harry wasn’t really sure why that bothered him so much. 


	2. Chapter 2

After his trial, Draco was given a portkey back to the manor. There wasn’t anyone waiting for him there. 

The manor was dark and in total chaos, as if ten battles had been fought inside it. Perhaps they had been. Draco wandered out onto the lawn. It was strewn with dead peacocks. _How unpleasant,_ he thought, nudging one with his shoe. He suspected there wasn’t any food in the house, and was visited by a hysterical impulse to start plucking the feathers off the peacocks. _I could be a modern-day Robinson Crusoe,_ he thought. _Live off the fat of the land!_

Blood smudged itself onto his shoe, and he realised that the idea of getting blood on his _hands_ made him want to pass out. _New plan,_ he decided. _Vegetarianism._

All the house elves had been freed. Draco drifted through the harrowed rooms. From time to time, he paused, and catastrophic loneliness closed over him. 

But it was more or less manageable. Whenever he felt he would cry, he spoke to himself. 

_“‘Werewolf’s Revenge: A novel,’”_ he said, when he passed the shredded remains of the library furnishings.

 _“‘Smashed Chandelier.’ A searingly modern piece, exploring the intersection of decadence and warfare,”_ he said, when he nearly tripped over the chandelier Potter and his friends had shattered. Why had no one ever fixed it, anyway? Draco’s father had imported it from Venice as a gift for Draco’s mother. That had been a lovely Christmas.

 _“‘Toilets of the Truly Evil: A Coffee Table Book,’”_ he said, when he used the downstairs loo.

“Maybe I’ll go mad,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. It was a rather appealing prospect. He envisioned himself wearing… oh, silk dressing gowns and elaborate hats. Smoking a pipe. He’d collar children in parks and frighten them with nonsensical aphorisms, and never think about anything at all. 

He walked and walked and walked, back and forth through all the rooms, exploring his childhood home as if he were a stranger in it. The shadows grew long as the sun moved west. Everything had ended. 

Finally, he stopped in front of the fireplace in the sitting room. There was a family painting above the mantlepiece, so he let himself cry for a while before chiding himself.

 _Pull yourself together,_ he told himself. _You’ve got peacocks to pluck._

Which made him laugh, so he stopped crying, and reminded himself that in some ways the situation was rather poetic. He’d always wanted to be an orphan, as a child. Orphans were much more interesting. _I’m becoming interesting,_ he thought, and then hated himself so ferociously that it actually hurt; his insides writhing and twisting—

To punish himself for thinking such an awful, callous thing, he went to his parents’ bedroom. It was predictably wrenching. He stared at their bed in silence, bowled over by how much it hurt to grieve. And what was mad was that death was _common_. It happened _all the time._

“Master Draco?” said a small voice.

Misty. His mother’s house elf. She came shyly out of his mother’s boudoir, looking at him with big, wet eyes. 

“You’re free,” he said. “Didn’t you hear? All the other elves have gone to Hogwarts.”

“Misty is not abandoning Miss Cissy’s child, sir!”

Draco swallowed.

“You’re staying?”

“I is not leaving you, sir!”

Draco sat on the low sofa by the window. 

“Right,” he said. “That’s good. You and me _contra mundum_ , Misty. Let’s start a band. Take over the world.”

“Misty is heartbroken about Miss Cissy,” said Misty.

“Yes,” said Draco. “But it’s not all bad. I look amazing in black.”

Misty cast him a reproachful look and began to cry. 

“Oh, Misty, darling,” said Draco. He hadn’t spent much time with her, not since he was a baby. He wasn’t sure why he called her darling; he certainly hadn’t ever called an elf that before. But she looked how he felt, and the fact that someone else in the world was mourning the same loss filled him with impossible, uncontainable gratitude.

He beckoned her over and gingerly wrapped her up in a hug. At first it was strange— she was a _house elf_ —but soon he was aware of how good it felt to hold someone. To care for someone. It made him feel as if he couldn’t let himself fly apart, yet. He had a sense that if he could just keep himself from flying apart for… for a few days, maybe, then… there wasn’t end to that thought. He just had to stop himself from jumping out a window. 

“Master Draco is too good to me, sir,” wept Misty.

“Damn right,” said Draco. “So don’t you ever leave.”

Misty stepped away from him, wiping her eyes.

“You is making jokes to me,” she said.

“I do that,” said Draco. “You mustn’t laugh at them; you’ll only encourage me.”

“I is laughing at jokes that are funny, sir,” said Misty, and Draco laughed at her serious little face.

“Listen, I’m starved,” he said. “Can you cook?”

“Of course,” said Misty, looking rather offended. “I is a trained elf, sir.”

“Well, of course you are,” said Draco. “What do you say? Shall we have ourselves a little feast? Roast peacock?”

“You is wanting to eat the peacocks…?”

“No. I’m a vegetarian,” said Draco, decisively. 

“You is a difficulty,” said Misty. Draco laughed again. 

“I’m a delight. Come on, feed me. I’m a poor orphan boy.”

Misty’s eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Misty, I’m only joking. That’s the only advantage to all this, see? That you have to feel sorry for me.”

“I _is_ sorry for you, Master Draco.”

“So am I. Let’s eat.”

Misty nodded, and they went to the kitchen.

It wasn’t exactly that Draco was anti-wallowing. Frankly, he was quite pro-wallowing. But he knew without a doubt that there would come moments when he would be unable to keep his spirits up, and so it was imperative not to give in until then. 

He insisted that Misty eat with him.

“It is not correct, sir,” she complained.

“I won’t tell my father, if you don’t.”

“Master Draco!”

“Too morbid?”

“Too _soon_ , sir,” said Misty. 

“That’s what makes it funny,” said Draco. 

“Your father was being a frightening man, sir.”

Draco glumly chewed his lentils. That was the difficulty with having a psycho murder-terrorist for a father. No one understood why it was sad when he died.

“I is feeling sorry for you, Master Draco,” said Misty, softly. 

“Don’t be,” said Draco. “All this will improve my Art.”

“Is you an artist, sir?”

“Not yet. Any minute now. I can feel it building up. Are you ready? Hand me a quill.”

Misty passed him a quill and ink. Draco drew several stick figures on a napkin, then handed it to Misty with an air of great solemnity.

Misty looked at the napkin in dismay.

“It’s a joke, Misty,” said Draco, because he could see that she was struggling to look at him. Misty was intensely relieved.

“Oh, I is glad, sir. You is _unusually_ bad at art.”

Draco grabbed the napkin back.

“Well, look, I was hardly trying! _You_ try drawing on a napkin.”

Misty took the quill and ink. She stuck her tongue out as she doodled. At the end of five minutes, she presented him with a photographic portrait of himself.

“Oh,” said Draco faintly. “That’s rather good.”

“Misty is always liking to make things beautiful, sir.”

“Shame you can’t make the Manor beautiful again,” said Draco, letting his spoon fall with a clatter in his bowl.

“I can, sir!”

Draco looked up.

“Can you?”

“Oh, yes, sir! Only it is a lot of work, sir…”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“I’ll help. No need to play coy. It’s my house, after all.”

Misty gave a funny sort of smile.

“I suppose…” said Draco slowly. “I suppose, in some ways, it’s your house, too.”

Misty blinked at him.

“You is different from how you used to be, Master Draco.”

Draco patted his chin.

“Why? Have I got lentils on my face?”

Misty laughed, then stopped suddenly, looking panicked. 

“Misty. Darling. You have complete and unending permission to laugh at my jokes. I’ll find it very depressing if you don’t, in fact.”

Misty vanished the food and dishes.

“I had better be making your room up, sir,” she said.

Draco looked at his knees and put his hand in the air.

“You is… wanting to ask a question, sir?” asked Misty, uncertainly.

“Yes. A horribly embarrassing one,” said Draco, lowering his hand. “Will you sleep in the same room as me? I know it’s not, you know, _correct_ , but I…”

“If it is acceptable, sir, I will set up a cot in your bedroom,” said Misty. Her voice was soft. 

“Perfect. Aren’t you an angel of the household. A cot. Excellent,” said Draco. He was babbling, because he was a grown eighteen-year-old man and he couldn’t fucking sleep in a room by himself. Would the list of things he was ashamed of never cease unfurling? 


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, after a night Draco would spend the rest of his life trying to forget, Misty made soldiers. 

“I’m not a child,” said Draco, happily dipping his thin slices of toast into the buttery yellow yolks. 

“You is a child until you is twenty-five, sir, in my books,” said Misty. 

An owl tapped at the window. Draco looked up hopefully. _Someone wants to speak to me,_ he thought. Pansy, maybe, or Blaise, or one of his father’s old friends.

But when Misty opened the window to let in the owl, it became clear that the letter was a howler. Draco and Misty stared at it in dismay. 

“I suppose we should open it,” said Draco. 

“I is opening it, sir. You go.”

Draco got up, leaving most of his breakfast uneaten. It was a bloody well-cast howler charm. He heard the woman’s crowing voice all through the manor, telling him how glad everyone was that Lucius was dead, and how if Draco had any decency he’d kill himself. Narcissa wasn’t mentioned. 

Misty found him in the library. 

“Wasn’t she feisty,” said Draco. “Probably an absolute firecracker in bed.”

“That howler was being sent by a very sad, angry woman,” said Misty. “Master Draco must not listen to her.”

“Could hardly help it,” said Draco, running his fingers along the spines of his books. 

“I is closing the manor to post,” said Misty. “No more can get through.”

“But, Misty, how will my admirers send me flowers?”

Misty seemed to take in the damage of library for the first time. 

“Mister Dark Lord was a very bad man,” she said.

“Is that what you called him? That’s quite funny. I bet he hated that.”

“I is never speaking to him, sir.”

“Well, anyway, this wasn’t Old Tom. This was my dear friend Greyback’s handiwork. Salazar; he ate some of the books, didn’t he? What a wanker.”

“It can be fixed, sir,” said Misty. Draco looked around sharply. She was observing him with shrewd eyes.

“I didn’t say it couldn’t,” he said.

“It cannot be the same, but it can be fixed.”

Draco grimaced.

“What do you mean, it can’t be the same? I’d like it to look as it did before.”

Misty shook her head.

“It will never be the same. It will be different. Still good, but different.”

“That sounds rubbish,” said Draco. “I want it all back the way it was.” At least, he started saying that, but the grief came for him, as he had known it would. He ended up choking on his tears. They were gone. Both of them. Just, _gone_. 

A humiliating hour later, he released Misty from a drowned-man sort of cuddle, and they both pretended nothing embarrassing had happened. 

“I take your point about the library,” he told her, after lunch. “So I’ve decided we shall do the library in brand new colours for a brand new era. Green and silver.”

Misty pursed her lips.

“Oh, what now?”

“Red,” she said. “Green and red.”

“It’s not a Christmas library, Misty.” Draco paused. “Is that a thing? It sounds quite nice.”

“If Master is trusting my taste…” said Misty, delicately. Draco sighed.

“I’ll have you know that I was considered quite tasteful, at school.”

“If you is forgiving my insolence, sir, that is being because of your mother’s shopping.”

Draco scowled.

“And you helped mother do all the shopping, I suppose?”

Misty looked smug.

“I has bought all the clothes you’ve ever worn, Master Draco.”

“Well, that makes me uncomfortable. Even my pants?”

Misty nodded.

“Let us never speak of this again,” said Draco. 

Misty nodded, and Draco agreed to do the library in stupid Christmas colours.

But three days later, as they put the finishing touches on the refurbished library, he had to admit she had been right. They had restained the wood to a deep, cherry red. The upholstered couches had been transfigured into dark green leather, and they had combined their magic to weave a deep red Persian rug. With the newly polished lamps and the green silk curtains, the room was cosily luxurious.

“It looks… all right,” conceded Draco.

“You is choosing the colours for the next room, sir,” said Misty. But when he chose the kitchen colours (green and blue), he soon found that she was a) completely ignoring him and b) right to do so. The pale blue and yellow kitchen, when it was done, was soothing and cheerful. 

  
“We is going to be needing more money, sir,” said Misty. Two weeks had gone by. Later, Draco would remember those two weeks in strange flickers: gasping for breath on the floor of the breakfast room because he had caught a sudden whiff of his mother’s perfume. Throwing all the crystal glasses because it _wasn’t fucking fair_ and then painstakingly repairing each one, because his parents had drunk out of them. Noticing that doing laundry made Misty miss his mother for whatever reason, and quietly taking on the task himself, only to dye all Misty’s tea towels pink by accident. 

“We’ll have to contact Jaggers,” said Draco. “He arranges all that sort of thing.”

“You will go tomorrow?”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

Misty stared at him.

“Oh, come on, Misty. I’m a poor little orphan boy! I might get lost! I might get kidnapped! You have to come with me.”

“If you is always calling yourself a poor little orphan boy, it will not always be working, sir.”

“I reckon I have another six months at _least_ until you can tell me to get over it. For now I am bereaved and pitiable and everyone should do as I say.”

Misty laughed.

“I will come, then, sir.”

“Only we’ll have to get you clothes,” said Draco. 

Misty froze.

“Oh, sweet, you can’t possibly think I’m kicking you out. How would I survive? I’m useless. But I’m trying to make people think I’ve given up Evil, you see. House elf enslavement is currently classed as evil.”

“I am not liking it, sir.”

“I think we’ll get you a bonnet. You’ll look just like a doll.”

She did, indeed, look like a very ugly doll in the clothes Draco found for her. Possibly because they were, in fact, ugly old doll clothes. 

“This is not beautiful,” she said.

“Not in the… traditional sense, no,” admitted Draco.

“If you is giving me another day, I is having the time to make something better.”

“Fine by me. Can we burn what you’re wearing now? I’m worried the frills will become sentient in the night.”

So Misty spent two days sewing, and by the time they went to Jaggers, had created possibly the most fashionable outfit Draco had ever seen. He clapped as she came down the stairs.

“Although I look like an idiot, now,” said Draco, gesturing at his simple black mourning robes. “It’s really very selfish of you.”

  
Draco had positive memories of visiting Jaggers. He remembered accompanying his father into the imposing, marble building, and preening as various clerks toadied up to him. He felt like a prince when he accompanied his father on business. 

The clerks completely ignored him and Misty. After five minutes of standing impatiently in front of a counter, Draco rapped his knuckle sharply on the countertop. 

The clerk looked up. 

“Can I help you,” he said unenthusiastically.

“I have an appointment with Jaggers.”

“If you will take a seat, I will notify you when Mr. Jaggers becomes available,” said the clerk. 

“But—I—look, do you know who I am?”

The clerk sneered at him.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

 _When I am king,_ thought Draco, _I shall have you locked in a room with ten small children learning to play the recorder._

Jaggers did not look up from a letter he was writing when Draco was finally allowed in to see him, half an hour later.

“Sit,” he said. 

“Your clerk was rude to me,” said Draco, motioning for Misty to sit in the chair next to him. She looked coldly dignified. 

Jaggers put down his pen, took off his glasses, and began to rub his eyes.

“Mr. Malfoy, I can see that you do not understand your position here. You have gone from being my firm’s most important client, to the least. In fact, your account comes under the minimum amount we demand of new clients.”

Draco stared at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Mr. Malfoy, that you haven’t any money. You’ve enough to live on for, oh, a year, if you’re spartan—” he cast Misty a disapproving gaze— “that is, assuming the manor roof doesn’t need fixing.”

“It does,” said Misty.

“Well, that will be the entirety of your account, in that case. I will assist you in the sale of the manor—”

“I’m not selling the manor,” said Draco indignantly. 

“You haven’t the money to keep it,” said Jaggers.

“Then I’ll just… I’ll get a job,” said Draco.

“You haven’t even graduated from Hogwarts. Forgive me for being blunt, Mr. Malfoy, but with your… _checkered_ past, and incomplete education, you’d be lucky to get a job as a night janitor.”

“I have a year’s money. I’ll go to Hogwarts and get a job afterwards.”

“Your roof will cave in,” said Jaggers, who was, in Draco’s opinion, a real cunt.

“How hard can it be to fix a bloody roof?” said Draco, jumping out of his chair. “I’ll do it myself! Listen to me. You will give me the entirety of my fortune—” Jaggers scoffed, cuntishly, at the word _fortune_ — “and in ten years time, when I’m rich again, you will bitterly regret that you turned your back on me when I needed you most.”

“That would indeed be a _terrifying_ threat, if there were any chance of it coming true,” said Jaggers. “Good day, Mr. Malfoy. I will have the remnants of your gold sent to the manor. If you should ever be looking for a job as a night janitor, I will consider your application, although,” he smiled, “you would have to prove to me that you were truly grateful for the opportunity.”

Misty apparated him out of the office before Draco could hex him. 


	4. Chapter 4

“I is not liking this,” said Misty for the fifth time. They were on the roof. At Misty’s insistence, Draco had strapped a broom to his back. 

“Do _you_ want to sell the manor?” he snapped at her. She recoiled from the anger in his voice. 

“No, sir,” she whispered.

“Then shut up.”

This kept happening. These moments of uncontrollable fury, when he tried to hurt her feelings. 

The first time had been when Misty tentatively suggested, shortly after their visit to Jaggers, that even with a degree from Hogwarts, Draco would struggle to keep the manor.

“What the fuck do you know about it, you dim-witted _elf?”_

Misty’s ears flattened back on her head, like a frightened cat. 

“Nothing, sir,” she said. “Misty should not have spoken. She will punish herself, sir.”

Draco put his face in his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was an awful thing to say. I didn’t mean it. You’re much cleverer than I am, you know that.”

And Misty had said it was all right. It wasn’t, though. He snapped at her constantly, and the more he did it, the more cautious she became around him, until he was forced to remember that she wasn’t actually a member of his family. That she was to all intents and purposes his slave, forced to care for him. That her affection in no way reflected any worth in him. 

The roof was falling apart. So was Draco. He stood looking down into the holes in the rafters and remembered looking into his mother’s grave.

“We’ll need to regrow the beams,” he said. “Then we’ll layer on the cladding—we’ll need to buy that—and finally we’ll add the slate. If we do it ourselves, it’ll cost a fraction of what it would to hire a magical engineer.”

“Yes, sir,” said Misty. Her obedience made him furious. 

“Oh, go make dinner, if you’re going to be like that,” he said. 

She was hurt. The guilt churned around him after she was gone, but he didn’t apologise. It wasn’t surprising to him that he was hurting her, because cruelty was coded into his blood through the male line. _Character is destiny,_ he thought. _Destiny is character._

The cold war between him and Misty lasted a little over ten days. It ended when Misty found him crying under the sink in the laundry room. He had gone there because he knew she hated it. 

“Sir,” she said, hovering by the door. 

“I wish I were dead,” he sobbed. “Why didn’t she let them kill me?”

Misty curled up next to him under the sink. 

“You is feeling angry since visiting bad Jaggers,” she said. “You is feeling that the manor is all you have left, and you is scared of losing it. You is scared of losing me, too. You is trying to lose me on purpose so you don’t lose me on accident.”

“You’re only staying because of my mother,” wept Draco. 

“We is _family_ , Master Draco,” said Misty, at which point Draco completely lost it. 

But he felt better afterwards. Less angry, although he still was continually seized with rage, and frequently snarled nasty words at her for no good reason.

He was distinctly nervous about returning to Hogwarts. Nervous enough to crack out his old diary, the one he used to keep before joining the Death Eaters. It had been too dangerous, then. 

_Reasons Returning To Hogwarts Is An Unpleasant Prospect,_ he wrote. (He liked lists. Order out of chaos!)

_1\. The disagreeable events leading to my parents’ deaths_

_2\. When I was last there, everyone tried to kill me, except for Harry Potter_

_3\. Harry Potter might be at Hogwarts, and we all know that my feelings regarding him are… complicated_

_a) Sub-point to the above: Isn’t he dating Weasley’s sister?_

_*Sub-point to the sub-point: What if they are both at Hogwarts TOGETHER and they canoodle? In front of me?_

_-Sub-point to the sub-point of the sub-point: He’ll be dating someone, anyway. God, writing this is giving me hideous fifth-year flashbacks. Good to know war doesn’t change everything, I suppose._

_4\. All of my friends are dead or in prison so returning to Hogwarts will be one of the most agonising experiences I could possibly put myself through_

_a) Sub-point: and I’ve actually had quite a few agonising experiences_

_*Sub-point to the sub-point: Including points 1 & 2, also at Hogwarts_

_Reasons I Should Return To Hogwarts Despite It Being A Clearly Terrible Idea_

_1\. I haven’t really got a choice_

——————

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_ he wrote.

_I have decided to complete my education at Hogwarts. I will require my house elf, Misty, to accompany me. I will also require permission to visit Gregory Goyle in Azkaban once a month. I trust that you will make the necessary arrangements._

_Regards,_

_D. Malfoy_

“Misty is not wishing to contradict Master Draco,” said Misty, when he showed her the letter, “but Misty is thinking it is a little…”

“Professional? Succinct? Confident?”

“Arrogant,” said Misty. “Misty would write it more like…”

She took the quill from him.

_Dear, great, admirable Miss Professor McGonagall,_

_I Draco Malfoy would be so grateful if you would allow me to come back to Hogwarts even though I was part of the so bad Death Eaters. Please Miss will you consider. Also my dear dear elf Misty, who is very loyal and good and fashionable, she would so so like to come to Hogwarts as well, to look after me, because I am only a poor orphan boy._

_Bad Master Greg is in prison but I am such a good friend to him I would so like to visit him. Do you think Miss Professor McGonagall is allowing such friendship during term time? Ah, I thank you for your goodness!_

_Humbly yours,_

_Draco_

Draco read the letter carefully. He looked at Misty, then gave a sudden, reckless laugh. 

“All right, let’s send it to her. I wonder what she’ll make of it?”

Misty beamed. They readjusted the wards to allow letters from Hogwarts. McGonagall’s answer came three days later.

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_I am happy to concede on all three points, although I would encourage you to write your own letters in future. Misty has a charming, but distinct writing style._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor McGonagall_

Sometimes, Draco was woken up by the sound of an explosion in the night. He would startle out of bed. 

“I is not hearing anything,” Misty would tell him sleepily, from her cot. “You is dreaming again, sir.”

The first few times, Draco stalked through the entire manor, determined to find the source of the noise. Eventually, he had to admit that it was in his head. This realisation in no way changed the terror that struck him each time it happened, nor the several hours of sleeplessness that would follow as the adrenaline coursed through him. 

_This is an incredibly boring way to go crazy,_ he reflected. 

———————

Harry wondered if Draco Malfoy was thinking about him half as much as he was thinking about Draco Malfoy.

“Unlikely, mate,” said Ron. “You’re verging on obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed,” said Harry. “I just think it’s weird that he didn’t answer my letter.”

“Why do you even care if he’s coming back to Hogwarts?” asked Ron. 

Harry poked irritably at his sandwich. It was easy for Ron to act as if it didn’t matter. Ron hadn’t seen Draco’s mother slaughtered in front of him. 

“Why don’t you just visit him?” asked Hermione. “He can’t possibly curse you. He knows he owes you his life at least three times over.”

“Visit him?” said Harry. “Seems a bit… I don’t know. Weird.”

Ron and Hermione both nodded. 

“Very,” said Ron.

“Definitely weird,” said Hermione.

“Still think you should do it,” said Ron.

“It might help you stop fixating,” said Hermione. “Right now you’re thinking of him as a mystery. You know how you get about mysteries.”

“Fine,” said Harry. “I’ll visit him, I guess.”


	5. Chapter 5

  
Malfoy Manor looked rather the worse for wear. There were dead peacocks on the lawn, in varying states of decay. The front door was opened by a house elf wearing what looked like Parisian _Haute Couture._

“Yes?” she asked, in an extremely unfriendly voice. 

“Hi, er, I was wondering if Malfoy was around?”

“Lucius Malfoy is dead,” said the elf.

“Right, yeah, I meant Draco?”

“Why is you wishing to see Master Draco? Master Draco is not telling me he had a guest coming. Is you invited?”

“No, I, er, I was just. Checking up on him?” said Harry, realising that he had not actually managed to figure out what his excuse for visiting was. He suspected Draco would not accept “I was idly curious about your academic plans for the upcoming school year”. 

The house elf looked unconvinced.

“I know him,” said Harry. “From school. My name’s Harry Potter?”

“He has not mentioned you,” said the elf. 

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. He knew it was unreasonable to be annoyed that Draco didn’t talk about him.

“Look, will you just let me see him?”

The elf gave him a queenly look, then nodded. 

“He is on the roof,” she said. She handed him a broom. “You is not to be hurting him. He is a powerful, rich man. If you is hurting him, the law will be hurting you.”

“No plans to hurt him,” said Harry, holding his hands up placatingly. The elf lifted an arched eyebrow and slammed the door in his face. 

“Right,” said Harry, to the shut door. “I’ll just…”

It did not take him long to find Draco, who, to Harry’s horror, was practically naked. He was wearing nothing but black trousers and a sort of leather holster across his bare chest that kept a broomstick strapped to his back. He was clambering about on one of the turrets, his wand in his teeth. 

Harry hovered his broom by him.

“Malfoy,” he said. 

Draco started so violently that he slipped down the side of the turret, rolling over several times before landing in a crumpled heap on a flat bit of roof between towers. 

“Jesus,” said Harry, coming to land beside Draco. “Are you okay?”

Draco sat up, glaring at him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. 

“Your house elf told me you where you were” said Harry, as if this was a sufficient answer.

Draco pushed his hair out of his eyes. He was all _tanned_ and _buff_ and _sweaty_. Harry didn’t know where to look. Silvery scars covered Draco’s chest. Harry averted his gaze and focused instead on Draco’s arms, which looked strong and capable. 

Draco seemed to feel where Harry was looking. He quickly moved his left arm behind his back, hiding the Mark.

“I just thought I’d… check on you,” said Harry. Draco sighed, looking resigned.

“Yes, that makes sense,” he said. Does it? thought Harry in alarm. Had he and Malfoy had a “just checking in on you” relationship all this time without Harry noticing it?

Draco got to his feet and disappeared around a corner. When he returned, it was with a wicker basket. 

“Butterbeer?” he offered. 

“Oh. Thanks,” said Harry. Draco cast a neat little spell and duplicated the bottle, handing Harry the original. They sat on the roof, looking at Malfoy’s vast grounds and drinking the cool butterbeer. 

“Well,” said Draco. “What are your questions.”

“How do you know I have questions?” countered Harry intelligently.

“Because I’m a terrible evil wizard and I can see into your soul,” said Draco. 

“Are you going back to Hogwarts?” asked Harry.

“Yes.”

“Because Hermione says you won’t stand a chance if you don’t—oh. Good,” said Harry.

Draco smiled tightly.

“So you’ll be able to keep an eye on me. All right, Potter, not that this hasn’t been… well, nightmarish, to be honest with you, but I’ve got a roof to fix.”

“Oh, right,” said Harry. “Do you want some help?”

Draco looked at him as if Harry had just suggested having wild, spontaneous, unprotected sex together on the roof. 

“What?” he asked, in a clipped voice.

“Never mind,” said Harry. He wished he hadn’t thought of the wild spontaneous sex comparison in his head. It wasn’t helping. “Cool, okay, see you at school then!” 

Draco did a sarcastic little wave, and Harry disapparated, his face burning. 

  
“There’s a problem,” he told Ron and Hermione, in a hushed undertone, as the rest of the Weasleys got drunk after dinner.

“What happened?” asked Hermione.

“I’ve been cursed,” said Harry. “Or, I don’t know. Doused with a love potion. Or a lust potion. I don’t know.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged looks.

“What _happened?_ ” asked Hermione again.

“He wasn’t wearing a _shirt_ ,” said Harry. “It was hot. His skin was all… damp. And his house elf said he’s never even mentioned me!”

Ron looked at Hermione.

“Here _I_ thought Harry would marry my sister,” he said.

“Apparently not,” said Hermione.

“You don’t think I _fancy_ him, do you?” asked Harry, horrified. “Just because Malfoy’s objectively good looking—”

“Ooooo, are we calling him objectively good looking?” said Ron. 

“He’s got a nice body,” said Hermione. Harry shuddered.

“Oh, sure,” said Ron. “No one’s denying that. But his face is a bit…”

Hermione nodded.

“Pointy,” she said.

“He’s chiselled!” said Harry. 

“I suppose he’s what the French would call ‘beau-laid’. Ugly-beautiful,” said Hermione. 

“I don’t fancy him,” said Harry.

“It’s all right to find someone sexually attractive without liking them as a person, Harry,” said Hermione.

“Yeah, just tell him to shut his gob when you fuck him,” said Ron. Harry spluttered, and Hermione looked disapproving. 

“Ron! Harry isn’t going to have _sex_ with Malfoy. Are you?”

Harry thought about the way the muscles had moved under Draco’s tanned skin when he handed Harry the butterbeer. 

“No,” he said fervently. “Definitely not.”

“Good,” said Hermione. “Because I doubt he’d be very nice about it. I imagine he’s very homophobic, quite apart from anything else.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, glumly. “I’m bi, by the way.”

“You’ve told us before,” said Ron.

“No, I haven’t!”

“Yeah. In fourth year, when you fancied Cedric.”

“I didn’t—I’ve never…!”

Hermione put her hand on Ron’s.

“He didn’t technically tell us, Ron,” she said. “He just talked about Cedric’s hair in a way that made his proclivities apparent.”

“Hang on,” said Harry, looking at Ron. “Why aren’t you mad that I don’t want to marry Ginny?”

Ron looked extremely shifty. 

“Well…” he said, casting a pleading look at Hermione. Hermione sighed.

“Ginny’s in love with Neville, Harry. She doesn’t know how to tell you because she feels as if she’s supposed to be your reward for defeating Voldemort.”

“She’s not my _reward_ —wait, Neville? Really?”

“Neville did all right by puberty,” said Ron.

“She was scared to tell me?” Harry asked Hermione.

“A little. But now that you’re in love with Malfoy—”

“I’m not in love with Malfoy!” 

Ron and Hermione laughed at him.

Harry wasn’t in love with Draco, obviously, but Hermione’s words didn’t seem quite right either— that he was sexually attracted to Draco despite disliking him as a person. Harry rather thought it was the other way around. That it was the glimpses of a caring, unselfish Draco— the Draco who had tried to protect Goyle from the angry mob after the Battle of Hogwarts—that had finally made Harry notice him in a different way. 

Then he thought of how unhappy Draco had been to see him, of that sarcastic little wave when Harry left. Hermione was right about one thing. Draco would not be “nice” about it, if he found out Harry had a crush on him. 

So Harry determined that he never would. 

————

Draco was deeply demoralised by Potter’s visit. He knew quite well what it signified: that Potter had his doubts about Draco evading Azkaban. 

Draco heaved a huge wooden beam into place, like a peasant. He was sure Potter had loved that; seeing what Draco was reduced to. Why was it, he wondered, that at all the most embarrassing moments of his life, Potter was always there?

He started listing all the embarrassing moments Potter had witnessed and comparing them with all the ways he wished Potter would think of him.

Things in his head quickly deteriorated. He remembered spiteful things he had said when he was ten with awful, wincing clarity. He felt the legacy of his name pounding through him. His dirty Malfoy blood.

 _Maybe I should kill myself_ , he thought, in an attempt to make himself laugh. It wasn’t particularly funny. He thrust the wooden beam into place, cast the stabilising spells, then stepped back. He looked at his Mark and imagined how it must have looked to Potter. Like the warning symbols on muggle cigarette packets: _there is something poisonous inside._

He walked to the edge of the roof. Took off the harness with his broom. What was it that howler had said? If he had any _decency_ he’d kill himself? But him not having any decency was the whole point, really. If he was _decent_ —if there was any hope—if he hadn’t been bred for cruelty…

“Misty,” he said, and she appeared with a crack. 

“Master is calling me?”

Draco held out his arm and allowed her to drag him away from the edge of the roof.

“Was just feeling a bit jumpy,” he said.

“You is not having had your afternoon tea, that is why,” said Misty. She picked up the broom and apparated them back to the kitchen, where she made him tea and egg cress sandwiches. She seemed to have entirely misunderstood what he meant by _jumpy_. 

He lay awake for hours through the cloudless, moonless night.

“Misty,” he said. It was past three in the morning, and Draco wished he were dead. 

“Yes, sir?” came Misty’s sleepy voice. She was a blessedly light sleeper. 

“What would you do, if I weren’t here?”

There was a long pause. When she spoke, her words were sharp and awake.

“I would never forgive you, for as long as I lived.”

The tears trickled down the sides of his face, losing themselves in the whirl of his ears. _No decency if I go, and none if I stay, either_ , he thought.

“We should clear away the peacocks,” he said.

“Go to sleep, Master Draco,” said Misty. Draco wondered if loneliness could kill you. 

  
It was September 1st. Draco brought his trunk down to the front hall.

“I will apparate your things to Hogwarts, sir,” said Misty. 

Draco had to sit down, he was laughing so hard.

“Sir?”

“Are you… are you seriously telling me… that house elves can apparate in and out of Hogwarts?” he asked her. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, _God!”_

Misty sat next to him, warm and loving as a cat. 

“Six months on that fucking vanishing cabinet,” said Draco, crying with laughter now, “six _months_ , and you might have brought all the Death Eaters to Hogwarts at any point…!”

Misty stiffened.

“Your father was not being very aware of house elf magic, sir,” she said. 

“It’s just funny, isn’t it, because we might have won the war if we had treated house elves respectfully, but we were fighting the war so that we wouldn’t _have_ to treat house elves respectfully. It’s funny.”

“Ha ha,” said Misty. 

Draco pulled his knees up to his chin.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m glad we lost the war.”

“Is you?” 

“Yes.”

“You is a keen house elf activist, now?” said Misty.

Draco looked at her.

“Was I cruel to you, when I was younger?” he asked her.

“Selfish,” said Misty. “My mother is telling me that all the Malfoys is selfish.”

Draco pressed himself into a tighter ball, trying to compress his chest, which panged with fear. 

“Oh, we’re rotten eggs, the lot of us,” he said, lightly. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“You is different now,” she said.

She was kind to him, he thought, as he kissed the top of her strange, hairless head. She was forgetting that just yesterday, he had snapped at her when she tried to help him set the table. 


	6. Chapter 6

  
The train platform was crowded and normal. Exactly a year ago, his mother had put him on this train. _Maybe time isn’t linear,_ he thought, _and somewhere, she’s still putting me on it._

Crabbe was dead, and Goyle was in prison, but it was all right. Draco was quite good at being alone. He squared his shoulders and made his face look bored as he searched through the train for an empty compartment. When he found one, he settled himself into the corner and tried to amuse himself. He watched the children wishing goodbye to their parents and filled in their conversations. 

_“But mother,”_ he imagined a tiny girl saying to her badly-dressed parents, _“I do not wish to go to Hogwarts. They say great evil lurks there, in the form of a dastardly-yet-handsome teenage boy!”_

 _“Beware the Malfoy peril, my child,”_ the mother answered, in Draco’s head. _“However alluring his blond hair! However sharp his sartorial choices! Steer clear, steer clear!”_

And they did. Several times, people poked their heads in to his compartment, saw him, and retreated. Draco did not look at them. He kept his face impassive. 

_They have no idea what I’m thinking_ , he reminded himself. That had been one of the terrors of the manor under the Dark Lord. The feeling that there was nowhere to hide, even inside his own head. But he could think what he liked, now, and no one could peep inside his skull. He luxuriated in the privacy of his own mind. 

The train had started to move when the compartment door opened and Astoria Greengrass came in. 

Draco vaguely knew her by sight as Daphne Greengrass’ sister. She was a pretty brunette, but he had never really spoken to her. 

“Hello,” she said. “Would you mind if I sat with you?”

“No,” he said. She smiled. _Good teeth_ , he thought, and then felt like a creep. 

Astoria sat opposite him and pulled out a book of muggle poetry, a notebook, and a box of chocolates. She caught him looking at the poetry. 

_“Paradise Lost,_ ” she said. “Have you read it?”

Draco shook his head.

“It’s good,” she said. “Tricky for us, because we don’t understand about muggle religion. But beautiful writing. Do you read much?”

“I did as a child,” said Draco, wondering if Astoria Greengrass was mentally stable, or whether she had perchance been in a coma for the last year and didn’t realise who he was. 

“And I suppose you’ve been rather busy lately,” she said, with a small laugh, undermining his coma theory.

“Not much time for poetry when you’re losing a war,” he said.

“Maybe that’s the best time for it,” said Astoria. 

“Read me some, then.”

Astoria smiled again. She did that a lot. Draco suspected it was because she was proud of her teeth. 

_“O foul descent!”_ she read. _“That I who erst contended_  
 _With Gods to sit the highest, am now constraind_  
 _Into a Beast… But what will not Ambition and Revenge_  
 _Descend to?”_

“This feels rather pointed,” said Draco. Astoria laughed.

“Maybe,” she said. “You’re the only Slytherin in your year who’s returned. I thought you might feel a bit strange.”

“I feel fine,” said Draco. 

Astoria looked at him.

“I’m just here to get my NEWTS,” he said. “Not to make friends.”

“That’s what they say on muggle reality tv,” said Astoria. _“‘I’m not here to make friends.’”_

“You’re into your muggle culture, aren’t you?” asked Draco.

Astoria smiled again, slightly too widely.

“I love muggle culture,” she said. “How do _you_ feel about it?’

So that was why she was there. To find out if he was _reformed_. To discover if he was still dangerous. Draco turned to look out the window, bone-tired.

“I don’t know anything about it,” he said.

Astoria observed him for a moment.

“Do you know what reality tv is?” she asked. 

“No,” he said, wishing she would leave. 

“It’s fascinating. There’s this one show where they trap a bunch of fit young people in a house together and film them all the time and they all get drunk and have fights and sleep together. From a psychological perspective, it’s sort of genius.”

“I don’t want to kill muggles, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.”

Astoria breathed in sharply.

“I wasn’t,” she said. 

Draco pressed his forehead against the cool glass window.

“I’m glad, though,” said Astoria. He glanced at her. She was leaning slightly forward, watching him. When she saw him look at her, she smiled. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

To his utter horror, Draco began to cry. 

“Oh—” said Astoria.

“Fuck off!” said Draco, desperately trying to hide his face. “I don’t fucking want your pity, just _fuck off!”_

She laid something down on his knee, then quietly left the compartment. When he was sure she was gone, he glanced at his lap, and saw that she had left him her handkerchief. 

He was still red-eyed and shaky when Potter opened the compartment door. (Of course he was. It was Potter, so Draco had to be doing something humiliating. Those, thought Draco dourly, were the cosmic rules of the universe.)

Potter was already wearing his uniform. He was always quick to change into it, on the train. It was strange to see him dressed like a schoolboy again, when everyone knew that he was so much more than that. 

“Oh, hey,” said Potter. “I was just looking for, for Neville.”

Through the door came the unmistakable sound of Neville’s laugh, the next compartment over.

“Uh, his toad, I mean,” said Potter. It occurred to Draco that Potter would probably be an auror, after school, while Draco would continue to be a generally suspicious maybe-criminal. There was bound to be a lot more of this sort of nonsense in Draco’s future.

“Haven’t seen any toads,” he said, turning away. But Potter didn’t leave. He slouched against the door frame.

“What NEWTS are you doing?”

Draco was abruptly sure that his chosen NEWTS were all typically evil subjects. 

“Potions, Transfigurations, Runes, Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he said. He had picked them because he had some vague notion that one day he might become a curse-breaker, but when he listed them they seemed like a Guide For How To Be The Next Dark Lord, and he wished he had chosen less suspiciously. Muggle Studies, for instance. But no, that would probably seem as if he was trying to take them out from the inside. There was no winning, really.

“I’m doing all of those, except Runes. Hermione’s in Runes,” said Potter. He sounded cheerful as fuck, probably because he was reassured at the prospect of being able to supervise Draco in three out of his four classes. 

“Bully for Granger,” said Draco. 

“You look… good,” said Potter, which was so clearly a jibe about Draco’s tear-stained face that it was all Draco could do not to leap to his feet and punch him.

“Fuck off,” he said, instead. 

“No, I just meant—you know, considering how things have been,” said Potter. Draco drew his wand (his mother’s wand; Potter had Draco’s wand) and pointed it at him. 

“I’m asking you very nicely, to please, if you don’t mind, _fuck off,”_ he said. Potter looked completely unsurprised to have Draco’s wand pointed at him. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “See you around.”

He left, quietly shutting the compartment door behind him. Draco chid himself as he put away his mother’s wand. He had meant it when he told Misty he was trying to seem less evil. Although was that _in itself_ a form of evil? Deception, or something? Snakes in gardens? Astoria would know. 

He fell asleep, and when he woke up, she was seated opposite him again. 

“Is deception a form of evil?” he asked her. She looked up. 

“Not always,” she said. “Had a nice sleep?”

“I’m a very unpleasant person,” said Draco. Astoria went back to her book.

“So am I,” she said.

——————

The eighth years were all in a tower together. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws in one dorm, Gryffindors and Slytherins in another.

“Mate, you’re _in_ ,” said Ron, when he saw the dorm list in the eighth year common room. “Just ‘sleepwalk’ into his bed and blow him!”

“Shut _up_ ,” said Harry. He was aware that he had woefully failed at being normal around Draco on the train. He was seriously considering pulling his Chosen One card to get out of sharing a dorm with him. 

Draco chose that moment to come into the common room. Zacharias Smith went puffing up to him, guns a-blazing. 

“Why are you here, Malfoy?” 

Harry stepped forward. But Draco just smiled.

“For the pleasure of your company, Smith,” he said. “Go out with me? I love you.”

“Ugh, I’m not _gay_ ,” said Smith. Draco leant his face very close into Smith’s.

“No? Then why are you trying so hard to touch me?”

“I want to _hit_ you, Malfoy, not to—”

Draco smiled even wider.

“That’s some kinky stuff, Smith, but I’m open to new experiences…”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” said Smith, plainly terrified. Draco rolled his eyes, suddenly spotting Harry. 

His face hardened. He shouldered his way past Smith to the dormitory list.

“How about we leave each other alone, Smith, yeah?” he said. He scanned the list, saw his name (just above Harry’s), muttered “Oh, _perfect_ ,” then swept up the stairs to the dorms.

“Blimey,” said Ron. “Malfoy’s gay!”

“I think he was joking,” said Harry.

“I think you’ve got a chance!”

“Ron, I’m serious: shut up,” said Harry. Because it was quite clear that where Draco was concerned, Harry stood no chance at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco was torn from his sleep by an ear-splitting explosion. He sat bolt upright in bed, terror surging through him like an electric current.

Everything was quiet. He could hear the sounds of the Gryffindors sleeping. His heart was pounding in his head, and his hand trembled when he brought it to his neck to check his pulse.

He knew the sound had been in his head. It was almost certainly just his particular brand of no-fun crazy. But he was in an unfamiliar room, with unfamiliar people, in _Hogwarts_ , where bad things happened to Malfoys. 

He slipped out of bed and went to the common room. 

“Misty,” he said, and she appeared with a loud crack that made him grateful he had not summoned her in the dormitory. 

“Sir,” she said, clearly still half asleep. “Is you wanting something?”

“I—did you hear a noise?”

The look she gave him was full of disappointment. 

“No, sir.”

“Maybe… maybe you couldn’t hear it, from where you were,” he said. 

“Wait here, sir,” said Misty. 

“Don’t go,” said Draco, but she had already left. He tried to steady his breathing. His whole body shook with small tremors. 

_Be sensible,_ he told himself. _What would a sensible person do? They’d probably sit down, wouldn’t they?_

Instead, he went to the window and opened it wide. The eighth year tower was so high up; second in height only to the astronomy tower. He stuck his head out. The stinging wind whipped his hair away from his head. It was dreadfully cold, but it felt good. He thought it might feel even better to have the wind all over his body; to swim in it. 

“Tea,” said Misty, reappearing.

Draco drew his head slowly back into the room and shut the window. He felt calmer. Misty put a tray down on the coffee table with a mug of redbush tea and some ginger biscuits. 

“Can’t I sleep… wherever you do?” asked Draco. 

Misty shook her head.

“It is not correct, sir,” she said. 

“I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“It is not being a problem, sir.” But she hovered anxiously as he sipped his tea. She looked so tired. He tried to still the shaking of his hands. 

“I’m getting tired,” he lied. “I might go to bed, now.”

“I is happy to stay up with you, sir.”

Draco yawned.

“No, really,” he said. “I’ll just finish these biscuits and go back to sleep.”

“If— if you is sure, sir?”

“Sure as the seashore. I’m sorry for waking you up; new place, that’s all. I’ll sleep better tomorrow.”

“Well… goodnight, then, sir,” said Misty.

“Goodnight,” said Draco, with what he hoped was a relaxed, happy, totally _fine_ sort of smile. Misty smiled back and disappeared. 

Draco looked at the biscuits and considered eating one, but the process of chewing and swallowing seemed, frankly, like a bit of a chore. As did everything. Every single option, except for the wind outside the window.

He gave a sudden laugh, surprising himself. Sneaky window, acting all innocent and beckoning. Draco wasn’t going to fall for it. He wasn’t going to fall at all.

He drained his tea, and went back to bed.

Astoria had saved him a place at breakfast. Next to her was a surly-faced girl.

“Mirth,” she introduced. 

“Well I just can’t _wait_ until we’re all the best of friends,” said Draco, in his finest drawl.

“Try not to be a twat,” said Astoria. 

Mirth held out her hand and Draco shook it awkwardly across Astoria’s chest.

“I’m muggleborn,” she said. 

“Then I’ll have to kill you,” said Draco, seriously. 

“Funny,” said Mirth. “I guess we’re stuck with this comedian, Astoria?” Mirth looked at Draco with ill-concealed dislike. “Astoria’s got a hard-on for fixing people.”

Draco scowled.

“I don’t need fixing.”

“That’s not why I’m acquiring this one, actually,” said Astoria mildly. 

“…acquiring?!” said Draco. 

“Then what do you want him for?” asked Mirth. Astoria looked Draco up and down.

“I haven’t decided yet.” She ruffled Draco’s hair. He was so astonished he forgot to protest. “I suppose there’s something compelling about a fallen angel.”

“I’m not—”

“Your dad was an evil git,” said Mirth. Astoria made a disapproving sound. 

Draco looked away from them, towards the Gryffindor table. Potter was buttering a slice of toast with sure, strong fingers. His hair was exactly the same as it had always been, jet-black and scruffy. He glanced up at Draco, and Draco looked quickly away.

“Do you disagree?” asked Mirth. 

Draco pretended, just for a second, that he was Harry Potter, and didn’t have a thousand things to be ashamed of. He was just trying to formulate some bold, Potterish reply when Astoria spoke.

“I wonder, Mirth,” she said, rather dreamily, “whether in twenty years, you’ll look back on this moment, and be glad you took this opportunity to be cruel?”

Mirth blushed furiously red, looked at her plate, and murmured, “Sorry, Draco.”

Draco snapped back into himself.

“What? For telling me you hate my family? Don’t apologise on that account,” said Draco, aware that his voice sounded thin and unsteady. “You’re in very good company. Some of the finest people in Great Britain have wished me dead.”

Mirth bit her lip. 

“My cousin… I’ve been a bit of a dick since he was killed,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Draco caught her gaze and held it.

“That, I relate to,” he said. 

“Eyeliner,” said Astoria. 

“What?” asked Draco.

“Eyeliner. It would look good on you.”

“Ohhh, yeah,” said Mirth. “Go full goth.”

Draco looked at Astoria in alarm. To his relief, she shook her head.

“No, not goth.” She pushed Draco’s hair out of his face. Touched his chin, his cheek bones, his eyelids. When he opened them, he saw Potter watching them, although he instantly turned away and pretended to be very interested in something Longbottom was saying. Draco settled his gaze back on Astoria, who was looking at him with intense concentration, touching him as if he were clay she wanted to mold. “Not goth,” said Astoria again, taking Draco’s chin in her hand and moving his face from side-to-side. “Byronic.”

“Bless you,” said Draco. Astoria laughed.

“He’s a muggle poet. Dark, brooding, troubled.”

“I’m not troubled,” said Draco automatically. 

Astoria let go of his face and returned to her toast.

“Shameful secrets. Remorse. Depression. It’s very sexy,” she said. 

“I don’t have shameful—”

“I’d go along with it, if I were you,” said Mirth. “If anyone can turn your reputation around, it’s Astoria. Remember Wanky Franky?”

To his surprise, Draco found he did remember. Wanky Franky was an unfortunate fifth year who was a bit weird. His doom had been sealed when someone declared that he always smelled as if he’d just had a wank. 

“Yeah?” said Draco. 

“He’s over there,” said Mirth, pointing discreetly down the table, to where a crowd of fifth years were laughing uproariously at something an arrogant boy had just said. It was Frank, Draco realised. Wanky Franky, holding court. 

“How did you…?” he asked Astoria. 

“It was a four-step process,” said Astoria. “Not too difficult.”

“She managed to get everyone to start calling him Big Dick Frank, instead of Wanky,” said Mirth.

“I’m sorry, let me get this straight,” said Draco. “You want to do… PR for me?”

Astoria smiled, showing all of her perfect, untrustworthy teeth.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I just want people to _understand_ you.”

——————

“It’s disgusting how happy you look right now,” said Ron. Harry grinned. 

“Essays! Do you know how many times last year I thought I’d never live to write another essay?” asked Harry. They were working together in the library during a free period.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “I do. It was the silver lining to dying young.”

Harry smiled at his Defence Against The Dark Arts textbook. He couldn’t help it. Being back at Hogwarts, combined with knowing he wouldn’t have to have some kind of deathly stand-off at the end of the year, was making him deeply, fundamentally content. 

“No one’s trying to kill me,” said Harry. “I’ll write as many essays as they want. I have the time.”

“Malfoy still wants to kill you,” said Ron, checking for a curse spell in the index of _Painful Hexes To Pain Your Exes._

Harry’s smile wilted.

“Yeah, but he’s not _going_ to,” he said. 

Because Ron and Hermione were horribly in love, they always paired together in lessons now. It happened for the first time in Potions. Within seconds, all the Gryffindors had paired up, leaving Harry partnerless. Draco had drifted over to his side, the only Slytherin, and fetched the potions ingredients without further comment. 

“Thanks,” Harry said. Draco nodded tersely. He didn’t speak throughout the class. Or any of the classes. Whenever Ron and Hermione paired up together, Harry would find Draco at his side, silent and taciturn. It didn’t seem as if Draco _wanted_ to be paired up with him. In fact, it seemed as if he bitterly resented it. But when Harry mentioned this ( _“You know, I never asked you to be my partner. You don’t have to be such a prat”_), Draco just rolled his eyes and looked long-suffering. 

Draco had developed a very good long-suffering face. He wore it the entire time he was with Astoria, which Harry couldn’t help but notice was A Lot. Draco had also developed a fool-proof method for dealing with people who attacked him, physically or otherwise: he pretended (at least, Harry _thought_ he was pretending) that it turned him on.

“Mmm—ahhhh,” he moaned, when a fifth year tripped him up on the stairs. Astoria’s friend, Mirth, helped him up. _(“Of course I know her name,_ Harry protested, when Ron called him out on it. _“I’m a dutiful member of the Hogwarts community!”_

_“Oh, yeah?” Ron had said. “Who’s that, then?”_

_“Er, that’s… Berk..lingham. The fourth,” Harry invented._

_“Admit it. You’ve learnt the names of all his friends.”)_

“Stings so _good_ ,” said Draco, when a weedy Hufflepuff cast a burn jinx at him. “Do it again; I’ll take off my shirt!”

And once, memorably, some Ravenclaw seventh years held him up against a wall in the dungeons and beat him up. They didn’t get far. The orgasm that Draco re-enacted was so loud that Harry heard it in the great hall. By the time he got to the dungeons, the Ravenclaws were standing in an awkward semi-circle around Draco, who writhed ecstatically, saying things like _“Ohhhhhhhh, punch me harder, baby!”_

He had two black eyes. He stopped moaning when he saw Harry, becoming quiet and wary.

Harry bat bogeyed the Ravenclaws and tied them up as a crowd gathered.

“Not that Malfoy can’t take of himself,” said Harry loudly, “but if I find out about anyone else coming after him, they will have to answer to me.”

Draco laughed.

“No one hurts Potter’s nemesis but Potter himself, understood?” he said, in what Harry suspected was intended to be an imitation of his voice. 

“Fuck off,” said Harry.

Astoria came through to the front of the crowd. Harry wasn’t sure how she had done it so gracefully. She floated over to Draco and pushed his hair out of his eyes, bringing his face into the light so that the bruises were suddenly visible to the gathered students.

She was always _touching_ Draco.

“You’re hurt,” she said, in a low but carrying voice.

“I’m fine,” said Draco, moving his head impatiently away from her ministering hands. 

“Let me take you to the hospital wing,” she said. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he said again. “I’ll sort it out myself.”

“You’ve had a lot of experience healing your own wounds, haven’t you, Draco?” she asked, her voice thick with sorrow. Harry could feel sympathy building in him as surely as if Astoria were casting a spell. But to his surprise, Draco seemed entirely unmoved. 

“Yes, yes, tragic evil orphan boy. Can we get lunch?” 

Astoria gave him a brave smile. Harry could hear people murmuring in the crowd, words like “out of order” and “he’s a victim of the war, too!”

Draco pushed past them, his robes billowing out behind him. 

That was another thing: Draco’s robes. Harry was almost certain they were new. They were the school uniform, of course, but there was something different about the way they had been tailored, all… gathered at the wrist and nipped at the waist and flowing everywhere else. They gave Draco the air of someone standing wistfully on a wind-swept moor. 

“Why don’t you ask him about them?” said Hermione, not looking up from her Runes homework. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, that’d go down well. He acts as if I’m cornering him whenever I pass him in the corridor. He’d probably hit me if I tried to ask about his clothes.”

“They just look like clothes to me, mate,” said Ron, who was staring at Hermione’s neck. 

“Look, never mind,” said Harry. “I just thought Hermione might know something about it because…”

“…I’m a girl?” finished Hermione acidly.

“No,” said Harry. “Because you’re _Hermione_. You’re supposed to know everything.”

“If you ask me, Harry, this crush has gone on a bit too long. I think you ought to ask someone else out. You know you’re wasting your time with Malfoy.”

“Yeah,” said Harry miserably. “I know.”


	8. Chapter 8

  
The robes were the first sign that Astoria was serious about rehabilitating him. 

“I can’t afford this,” he said, when she dragged him to a tailor in Hogsmeade. 

“Yes, you can.”

“Astoria. The Ministry took everything. I’m barely clinging onto the _Manor_.”

Astoria smiled her enigmatic, white-toothed smile. 

“Trust me. This is an investment,” she said. 

So he allowed the tailor to measure him and cast spells over him and make him an entirely new wardrobe. It cost him all the money he’d anticipated living off during the Christmas holidays, and he couldn’t understand why he’d let himself be press-ganged into it. 

Until the robes arrived. He tried them on in Astoria’s dormitory. She and Mirth sprawled across Astoria’s bed. 

“Oh, Astoria, you’re a genius,” said Mirth. 

Draco looked at himself in the mirror and had to agree. There was something about the new robes that made him look…

“He’s so _vulnerable_ ,” said Mirth. “But like. In a dangerous way.”

Astoria rose from the bed and came to stand beside him in front of the mirror. Mirth watched her, eagle-eyed. Mirth, Draco had noticed, didn’t like to take her eyes off Astoria, if she could help it. 

“You’ve always dressed well,” said Astoria, smoothing her hands down Draco’s arms. He knew it should have been sexy. _Astoria_ probably thought it was sexy. “But a little… militaristically. It was too uptight. You dressed as if you were still fighting in a war. This… this is what the prince wears in exile.”

“You read too much poetry,” said Draco. “It’s scrambled your brain.”

Astoria only smiled.

Then she was always pulling stunts like the thing with the Ravenclaws. Draco sometimes wondered if she taunted people into attacking him, so that she could then garner him sympathy. 

“What the hell was that?” he said, twenty minutes after Potter had fucking rescued him _again_ because the man had a pathological need to help people who didn’t deserve to be helped. (Draco would wank over it later, in the shower, hating himself the entire time.)

“Hold still,” said Astoria, touching his chin and casting healing charms at his eyes. 

“All that, _‘Oh, Draco, you’ve had so many wounds to heal’_ bollocks,” said Draco. They were in Astoria’s dormitory, and for once, Mirth was elsewhere. She would be a dick about this later, Draco knew. She was always a dick after he and Astoria spent time alone together. 

“That was good, wasn’t it?” said Astoria. She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the lips. Draco’s eyes snapped open.

“Astoria,” he said. 

“Your problem is that you don’t want anyone to know you’re suffering,” she said, as if she hadn’t just kissed him. “But they _need_ to see you suffer. That’s how you’ll draw them in.”

He didn’t mention the kissing, and neither did she. It just became something they did sometimes, when no one was watching. They were always rather cool, calculating kisses. Draco suspected Astoria wanted to marry him, and he had no real objection. 

He had come out to his father in the Christmas holidays in sixth year, just when he was beginning to understand what dirty fucking swindle he had fallen victim to when he joined the Death Eaters. He went to his father’s study, determined to be reckless. 

“I suppose you’ll be really proud of me, once I’ve murdered a few people, won’t you?” he said. His father pressed the tips of his fingers together and said nothing. 

“You know what else might make you proud of me? I’m gay,” said Draco, the blood thumping through him. 

He wished he could take it back the moment he spoke the words. His father stood, went to the bar cart, and poured out two firewhiskies. He handed one to Draco.

“So am I,” he said. 

“…what?”

“Don’t look so appalled,” said his father.

“But… does Mother know?”

His father made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Do you… love her?” asked Draco.

“Narcissa is an excellent wife.” 

Draco downed his whisky. 

“Careful, Draco. Alcoholism is an unappealing trait.”

“So, what, you’re gay and you just pretend not to be?” asked Draco. 

“I make use of a very discreet escort service. I will give you their information—”

Draco stood.

 _“This!_ This is exactly the sort of fucked up shit other people don’t have to deal with!”

His father’s lip curled.

“No need to be vulgar, Draco. Or dramatic.”

There was something about that sneering expression that always made Draco docile and obedient. He sank back into his chair, muttering “sorry”.

“The Dark Lord is not interested in your sexuality, so long as it is not a weakness,” said his father. “Do you know what would make it a weakness, Draco?”

Draco thought instinctively of Potter glaring at him across the great hall. 

“Love,” he said.

“Yes,” said his father. “Have I any reason to be concerned?”

“No,” said Draco, stiffly. 

It wasn’t love—how could it be—but it was several other things that Draco knew quite well the Dark Lord would not approve of. Admiration. Fascination. Lust. Respect. 

Draco built up his most powerful Occlumency shields around his feelings for Potter, and let everything else go unprotected, in the hope that the Dark Lord wouldn’t think to look further. He spent two years living in constant terror that he would be discovered. Even now, he sometimes found himself instinctively blocking off parts of his mind when he thought of Potter, in case someone should happen to be looking into it. It was a hard habit to break. 

He didn’t mind being gay, but it made him sad to know he would never act on it. He had missed his window of opportunity. No one would want him, now. It made him laugh to pretend they did, when they attacked him in the corridors, and it had the added benefit of disturbing people, but he knew what a senseless little game it was. 

Astoria wanted him. He wasn’t sure why, but it didn’t matter, really. He wondered if he could grow to love her. If she would one day make him “an excellent wife”. 

  
They had been back at Hogwarts for nearly a month before he noticed that the house elves were bullying Misty. 

He had been woken up by an explosion again. It was the first time in several days: it had stopped happening quite as much, and anyway, he had found a way to calm himself afterwards. He went to the alcove window on the sixth floor, by the tapestry of Hildegard of Bingen. From there, he could look down into the Cloisters, at his mother’s grave. He didn’t dare go in person. If anyone saw him there, the news would spread, and he wasn’t keen on the idea of people graffitying his mother’s tombstone. 

But this particular night, the alcove wasn’t comforting. He still felt… jumpy. He opened the window and clambered up into it, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. It was cold. His breath came out in misty clouds, visual proof that he was still breathing. The stone of the window ledge was wet and gritty. It soaked through his pyjama bottoms. He shivered. 

He peered down at the Cloisters. He could see just where he would land, on the cobbles near the flower patch Potter had made. The flowers never drooped, even now that frost came every morning and coated them with crisp ice crystals. 

Dumbledore had been dead when he fell. Draco knew that, intellectually. He tipped forward further than he had meant to and his heart jumped into his throat as he saved himself. 

“Misty,” he said. 

She appeared with a crack. 

“I was just feeling a bit—” said Draco, but he stopped when he turned around and saw that she was crying.

“Oh, Misty, don’t, darling, I wasn’t going to—”

But as she wept into his arms, it became apparent that she wasn’t crying because Draco wanted to kill himself. (He countered a childish instinct to be offended by this.) She was crying because the other elves were making her sleep in freezing dairy cupboard. 

By the time she had explained herself fully, she was no longer crying, and Draco was so angry he was trembling. 

“Take me to the kitchens,” he said.

“No—sir—” said Misty, looking frightened.

“That’s an _order_ , Misty.”

So Misty led him to the portrait of fruit, and tickled the pear, and stood sheepishly aside to let Draco through. She took him to the elf dormitory, a cavernous room with many curtained beds. The elves were up, whispering to each other, looking worried. Their anxiety increased tenfold when Draco entered.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked them. 

“You is Mr. Malfoy, sir,” said one elf, after a pause. Draco recognised him. Flotsam, his name was. He used to work at the manor, and he was looking at Draco with loathing. “And we is not your elves any more, none of us, except for Misty.”

“You’re wrong about that,” said Draco. “Misty isn’t mine, either.”

Misty made a small, unhappy sound. He put his hand on the top of her head.

“I’m _hers_ ,” he said. “Misty has more self-respect than any person I’ve ever known. I don’t know why she’s loyal to me, but I assure you that if… or perhaps, when, she wants to leave me, I won’t try to stop her.”

“Misty is not abandoning family, sir,” said Misty quietly. Draco didn’t look at her. 

“You should feel ashamed of yourselves,” he said to the elves. “You, who know what cruelty is.”

The silence in the dormitory was piercing. None of the elves would meet his eye, except Flotsam, who tilted his chin up defiantly.

“Who is you to talk of shame, Mr. Malfoy?” he said. “Who is you, to talk of cruelty?”

“Don’t let your feelings about _me_ affect your behaviour towards Misty.”

“She is betraying the house elf cause!” shouted an elf, far down the dormitory. Draco turned to look for the speaker, but they had hidden behind their curtains.

“What is that cause?” asked Draco. “Freedom? Dignity? Opportunity? I don’t believe Misty is sacrificing any of those in choosing to care about me. And I don’t see her as a servant, but as a sort of…” he thought for a moment. “…annoying aunt.”

Misty’s laughter turned into a gasp.

“Harry Potter!” she said. And, indeed, it was. Of course it was, thought Draco sullenly, because Draco was embarrassing himself, and so Potter had to be there to witness it. He probably had some kind of Draco-Humiliation tracking device. 

Then it occurred to Draco that Potter must have been following him ever since Draco left the dormitories. That Potter must have seen Draco climb into the window and look down. That he hadn’t done anything to stop it. 

Something twisted painfully in Draco’s chest. 

The elves, meanwhile, were in a state of jubilation. They had produced party poppers. Confetti. Small scale fireworks. They chanted Potter’s name in joy. 

“What are you doing here?” Potter asked Draco.

“Spreading sedition,” said Draco wearily. “Doing evil. You know, the usual.”

He left the elf dormitory and went back to the portrait-hole. Misty followed him.

“Thank you,” she said. 

“Any time,” said Draco.

“Sir…” she looked shifty. “It is not good to sit in the window. You… you will be catching cold.”

He looked at her and wished, just _wished_ , that she would tell him not to die. She stared back, and he wondered if she even knew what he meant, all those times he told her that he was feeling jumpy. Maybe she had no idea. 

“Malfoy,” said Potter, struggling to free himself from the welcoming embraces of about a dozen house elves. “You going to bed?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“Cool, I’ll come with you,” said Potter. “Er— what was that about Misty and house elf causes, earlier?”

Draco swallowed his pride and thought of the greater good.

“They’re being unkind to her because she stayed with me,” he said. “Tell them to stop being twats, will you?”

“Oh,” said Potter, sounding surprised. “Yeah. Er…” he shook off the last of the house elves and addressed the room. “Be nice to Misty, yeah? She’s a pal of mine.”  
Draco snorted, and Misty looked disgusted. But the assembled house elves were clearly deeply impressed. 

“Oh, yes, Harry Potter sir!” cried one, and then they all began crying it, and one of them unfurled a banner with Potter’s face on it, and Potter hastily pushed Draco out of the portrait-hole, following close behind.

Potter shut the portrait. The silence was instant and echoing. 

“I…” said Potter. “I wanted a midnight snack.”

“Stow it,” said Draco. “I know you were following me.”

“I wasn’t _following_ you, exactly,” said Potter, racing to keep up with Draco. “I was more, er, going to the place where I knew you were.”

“And you knew that because you followed me.”

“No. I have a map.”

Draco stopped short.

“I knew it!” he said. 

“What?”

“I knew there was a reason you’re always there at the worst possible moment. What, does it have some sort of… Draco Distress signal? _‘Alert! Alert! Draco Malfoy Weeping In A Bathroom!’”_

“No,” said Potter. 

Draco started walking again. Potter had already apologised for nearly killing him. Sort of. At the time, when it happened. Draco didn’t expect, or need, another apology.

“You know,” said Draco, “I’m genuinely not trying to kill anyone, this year.”

“I never said you were.”

Draco huffed.

“No, you’re just following me around like we’re still at war, checking up on me.”

“I wasn’t checking up on you,” said Potter. 

Draco shook his head. If this was how Potter wanted to play it, Draco couldn’t stop him.

“Look, what do you want to ask me? I know I owe you. I’ll tell you anything you want,” said Draco.

“You don’t owe me,” said Potter, sounding annoyed.

They were silent as they climbed the spiral staircase leading to the eighth year tower. 

“So you woke up in the middle of the night to go yell at some house elves?” asked Potter.

“They deserved it,” said Draco. 

Potter laughed.

“I bet you always think that,” he said. “Couldn’t it have waited till morning?”

Draco decided against elbowing him in the head, but it was a close call. 

“If you must know, I was already awake,” he said.

Potter paused on the stairs.

“You don’t sleep well,” he said. 

Draco stopped, too. They looked at each other in the slanting moonlight. There was always something vitalising about Potter’s attention; it was half the reason Draco had spent his whole life antagonising him. But Potter didn’t seem hostile, now. He seemed cautious.

“I hear explosions. In my head. They wake me up,” said Draco. He didn’t know why he said it. He often found himself saying things he hadn’t meant to say, these days. He was losing his grip on himself. It was a fucking disaster.

But Potter’s expression didn’t change. 

“Did something happen?” he asked, casually.

Draco started moving up the stairs again.

“There was… an incident, I suppose. It wasn’t a big deal. I was woken up by an explosion in the manor one night when Old Tom was having a fit about something. Something _you_ did, probably. Anyway, I’ve had it since then. About a year.”

“I haven’t had any dreams, since I came back,” said Potter. 

“Well, aren’t you pure of heart.”

Potter grinned.

“So,” said Draco, “do you follow me every night? Or was tonight a special occasion?”

“You went somewhere new,” explained Potter. Draco glanced at him.

“You didn’t follow me to the alcove on the sixth floor?” 

Potter shook his head.

“Why do you go there?” he asked. Draco smiled. They had reached the eighth year common room. 

“To get some air, when I’m feeling jumpy,” he said. 

Potter looked disconcerted. He rubbed the back of his neck. He was horribly handsome, thought Draco, but it was more than that. It was that Potter was _attractive_. Magnetic. He moved with confidence, as if he had been shot out of a canon and knew just where he would land. 

“I’m sorry, you know,” said Potter, improbably. “About the bathroom.”

Draco stared at him in astonishment. Potter wasn’t looking at him properly. He was running his quick hands through his thick, dark hair. It made Draco want to _bite_ him. 

“Er, the sectumsepra,” Potter clarified.

“I haven’t _forgotten_ , you muppet,” said Draco.

“Oh. Right.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond. The smallest kindnesses made him want to break down.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said gruffly. “About… do you want me to list it all?”

Potter started to shake his head, then stopped.

“Well— actually— a bit, yeah,” he said. 

Draco grimaced.

“I was hoping you would be gracious about this. All right. I suppose the first thing that comes to mind is making fun of you for being an orphan.”

Potter looked as if this was the last thing he had expected Draco to say. 

“I’m sorry about your parents, Draco,” he said. 

Draco was speechless. He and Harry stared at each other. _Say something,_ thought Draco, desperately. 

“Yes, I know how friendly you were with my father,” was what came out. 

_Fucking great,_ thought Draco. But Harry, after a searching look, just laughed. 

“Everything,” said Draco. “I’m sorry about everything.” He looked at his feet. “Don’t make me list it all.”

“Are you even sorry about the badges in fourth year?” asked Harry. Draco looked up indignantly.

“Certainly not! Those took me ages!”

Harry laughed again, his eyes crinkling around the edges. He was wearing a soft old t-shirt, and Draco could make out a slim vein running down his brown forearm. 

“Okay,” said Harry, “so a general amnesty on everything but you being a prick, is that right?”

Draco felt as if he was coming back down to earth. Remembering who he was. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.” He started towards the dormitory stairs. “It’s late.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Potter, following close behind. They crept back into their dormitory and went to bed without another word. 


	9. Chapter 9

  
When Harry smiled at Draco the next morning at breakfast, Draco didn’t smile back. He just made a sort of sneering, confused face and looked away. But Harry wasn’t discouraged. The fact was, Draco had been _defending a house elf._ And he had _apologised_ to Harry. 

It was nice thinking that people could be redeemed. It gave Harry a warm, glowing feeling. Although most things gave him that feeling, now: a feeling of newness, of spring, of awakening. 

When he went to partner up with Draco in Defence Against the Dark Arts, however, he found that Parvati Patil had beaten him to it. 

“I’ll partner with you, Harry,” said Padma. She spent the first ten minutes of the lesson sending covert glances at Draco and Parvati.

When Harry tried to cast legimens on her, she simply moved her head out of the way, sighing. 

“He’s so dreamy,” she said. 

“Who?” asked Harry, although he was pretty sure he knew.

 _“Dra_ co, of course,” said Padma. “He’s just so _bro_ ken and _trou_ bled. Don’t you think?”

Harry, who spent half his nights watching Draco’s name on the Marauder’s Map as Draco languished in that alcove on the sixth floor, did not particularly want to talk about Draco’s dreaminess.

“Not really,” he said.

“Boys,” said Padma, dismissively. She glanced at Draco and sighed again. “I wish he wasn’t with Astoria.”

“Are they dating?” asked Harry. Padma nodded sadly.

“Seamus saw them kissing behind that statue of Julian of Norwich in the East tower.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re dating,” said Harry, turning around to look at Draco himself. Draco’s lips were drawn in a hard line. They looked completely untouchable, and yet Astoria Greengrass had kissed them. 

“Legimens!” said Padma, and Harry ducked. He still couldn’t do Occlumency for shit. 

  
Draco stormed out of Defence in a towering mood. 

“What happened?” Padma asked Parvati, who came over to where Harry was putting away his textbooks very slowly so that he could hear what Parvati had to say. 

“Poor _boy_ ,” said Parvati. “I hit him with legimens and all these memories of his _mother_ came up, and so I asked him if he missed her and I really think he wanted to cry, but he _stopped_ himself because he didn’t want to be _vulnerable_!”

“Don’t fucking ask him things like that,” said Harry. “Can’t you see he’s trying to hold it together?”

Padma and Parvati melted. 

“Ohhh,” they said. 

  
“Yes, I’ve noticed there’s been a change of opinion about him,” said Hermione, that evening at dinner. “Half the school fancies him, now.”

Ron looked outraged.

“Why don’t they fancy Harry?!”

“The other half do,” said Hermione. “As far as I can tell, you pick a team. Either you want a brave hero to rescue you—you’re blushing, Harry— or you want a broken, troubled bad boy to fix.”

“Draco doesn’t need fixing,” said Harry, his gaze drifting over to the Slytherin table. Draco was laughing at something Mirth had said, although he looked mad about it. Astoria was watching him with a calculating expression.

“Tell me you don’t still fancy him,” said Ron. 

“No,” said Harry. “Definitely not.”

“Because he’s still a prat,” said Ron.

“I don’t know; he _did_ apologise,” said Harry. Draco flicked his pale hair out of his eyes. Down the table, Harry heard Parvati loudly sigh. 

“He didn’t apologise to _me_ ,” said Ron. “ _I’m_ the one he poisoned! You _can’t_ still fancy him, Harry.”

“No,” said Harry. “I’m just turned on by his sexy body and intrigued by his changing character.”

Ron groaned. 

“Harry… are you thinking about _dating_ him?” asked Hermione. 

Draco seemed to suddenly feel Harry’s eyes on him. He looked up. Harry looked hastily away.

“He’s dating Astoria Greengrass,” he said. “I don’t even know if he likes guys.”

Hermione was observing him with something close to pity.

“You really like him,” she said. 

“No more than everyone else, apparently,” said Harry, feeling abruptly hopeless. He had literally no reason to believe that Draco viewed him as anything but a painful reminder of his harrowing past. “Look, can we not talk about it anymore?”

“Mate, you brought him up,” said Ron.

  
Draco hastened to Harry’s side in Transfigurations.

“Partner with me,” he said, his eyes darting around the room. Parvati was making a beeline towards him. 

“Sure,” said Harry. “Didn’t you have a nice time with Parvati in Defence this morning?”

Draco snorted.

“I don’t know how you dealt with it, all those years,” he said, under his breath. “A fourth year boy asked me out in the showers this morning. He _knocked on the stall.”_

“Oh? And what did you say?” asked Harry innocently.

“I told him to get lost, obviously. He was fourteen.”

“And a boy,” said Harry.

“That was the only thing he had going for him,” said Draco, then froze, looking as if he wished he could take back the words.

Harry, meanwhile, had accidentally transfigured his kitten into a ferret.

“Well, that seemed personal,” said Draco, transfiguring it back. “And if you recall, we’re trying to age the cat, not change the cat.”

“Sorry. Er, you like guys?”

Draco didn’t answer for a few minutes. He managed to set fire to his kitten’s whiskers.

“Shhh,” he said, bringing the tiny, mewling creature into his chin. “You poor thing. You’re going to be knocking into things for weeks, aren’t you?”

The sight of Draco Malfoy, potential homosexual, cuddling a kitten and whispering comfort into its fur, was doing _bad things_ to Harry’s brain. 

“Yes,” said Draco, putting the kitten back onto his desk. “To answer your question.”

Harry grinned. 

“Oh, cool, me too,” he said. 

“You… what?” said Draco.

“Uh, well, I like both.”

But then Professor McGonagall began to talk, and neither of them spoke for the rest of the class. 

  
A week went by in which Harry had so much homework there was no time to think about Draco Malfoy and his sexuality. 

“It’s mental. We just won a war,” said Ron. “You’d think they’d let us slack off a bit.”

“You didn’t have to come back,” said Hermione running a hand through her frazzled hair. “We’re here to work, after all!” 

Harry didn’t mind the work. Harry didn’t mind anything. Harry was just there for the ride, and he was having a grand old time.  


He woke up to a familiar sound: Draco gasping himself awake. He did this a few times a week. Harry waited and listened. He heard Draco lie still for a minute, then get out of bed and slip out of the dormitory. 

_He probably wants to be alone,_ thought Harry. _He definitely doesn’t want to speak to me. _

But then he thought of that apology. They had barely spoken since then. There had been something rather fragile about Draco, that night; something delicate about his brittle jokes and swift glances. 

Harry got out of bed and went to the alcove on the sixth floor. 

Draco was leaning so far out of the window that Harry had to tamp down an instinct to drag him back by the collar of his long-sleeved pyjama top. 

“You’ll fall if you’re not careful,” he said, pulling off his invisibility cloak. 

Draco jerked his head inside.

“Salazar!” he said. Then, when he saw who it was: “Of course _you’re_ here.”

“I can go,” said Harry. 

“No, it’s fine,” said Draco. His hands trembled slightly as he pushed his hair back. His face was wet with rain. “I was just being a miserable git.” 

“Why do you come here?” asked Harry, coming closer. Draco stepped aside and gestured for Harry to look out the window. There, six stories down, was the Cloisters.

“Oh,” said Harry. 

“It’s the closest I can get.”

“You mean— you don’t go to the Cloisters, in case people find out she’s buried there?”

“I wish you and I could have just one conversation that wasn’t about something _awful_ ,” said Draco, sliding to the floor. “Yes. I don’t visit my mother’s grave lest the reams of people who loathe me for the war crimes I committed take out their vengeance on her remains.”

“I don’t really think about the war,” said Harry, sitting down as well. “I think about Quidditch, mainly.”

Draco stretched his long legs out before him.

“Quidditch?” he asked. There was about a foot between them. It was freezing. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Thinking of playing, after Hogwarts. The Tornadoes have asked me—”

“ _Have_ they? They’re all right,” said Draco.

“Yeah, no, I’m really flattered. But the team’s cliquey; they’ve been in the same positions for like, a decade.”

Draco nodded.

“They had a great seeker in Midwich, too,” he said. “Big shoes to fill.”

“Yeah, exactly,” said Harry. “And between you and me, Midwich might come back. He only retired because he wanted to spend time with his kids.”

“Stupid of him,” said Draco. 

Harry laughed.

“So I’m also considering the Cawdors. In Inverness?”

“That’s the little leagues, Potter.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’d have more of a chance to influence the team.”

Draco smiled. 

“You’re a tyrant, Potter. You’ve tasted power as captain, and you don’t want to give it up.”

“Yeah, maybe,” laughed Harry. “I don’t know. I don’t really care where I end up. It’ll be good, wherever.”

Draco shifted uneasily against the cold stone floor. 

“ _‘It’ll be good, wherever’_?” he repeated. 

“Oh. Yeah. I’m having a sort of. Happiness renaissance.”

Draco looked at him as if he was trying to crack Harry open. 

“How?”

“Er… I guess I’ve been worried about the same thing since I was eleven? And now I’m not. And every time I remember that it’s over, I’m filled with this, like, intense rush of gratitude… sorry, I’m rambling.”

“You’re okay,” said Draco quickly. 

“I feel guilty, sometimes, but mainly I’m just so _relieved_. Everything is easy, compared to before.”

Draco was looking at him with a fierce, hungry expression.

“Er,” said Harry, looking at his knees. “Sorry. You didn’t need to hear about my whole inner life.”

“I asked.”

Harry looked back at him. Their eyes met. Harry wished he wouldn’t keep running into Draco when Draco was _damp_. There were still drops of rain dripping from his icy blond hair onto the thin fabric of his pyjamas. 

“Look,” said Harry. “We could do the whole, me stalking you thing. Or we could just, you know… hang out sometimes.”

“Hang out?” asked Draco, blankly.

“I’m curious about you,” said Harry.

Draco turned his head away. His nose was long and slender. It came to a pointed tip.

“Whatever you think is easiest,” he said. 

“We don’t have to,” said Harry, mortified. “If you don’t want to?”

“I’m not up to anything, Potter. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I’m really not.”

“I didn’t say you were!”

Draco sighed and put his hands to his eyes. 

“How come you and Ginny broke up?” he asked.

“What?”

“We’re hanging out, I thought,” said Draco. “Or is it a one-sided thing? I’ve already told you that I’ll answer all your questions. But you’re not asking any.”

“No, it’s not one-sided— you can ask me stuff. Er, she’s in love with Neville.”

“ _Longbottom?”_

“Yeah,” said Harry.

“Over _you?”_

“Apparently,” said Harry, his heart soaring at the clear indignation in Draco’s voice. 

Draco twisted his mouth.

“Well, I suppose he did come into his own after puberty,” he said, uncertainly. “Still, it’s a bizarre turn of events.”

“I don’t mind,” said Harry.

Draco gave him a look that Harry might almost have called fond. 

“Right. You don’t mind anything,” he said. 

“I mind about some things,” said Harry. He let his eyes fall to Draco’s lips. 

But Draco didn’t see. He had closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall and bringing his knees to his chest.

“You all right?” asked Harry. Draco’s eyebrows had drawn together only a fraction, but the effect was one of heartbreaking, deep-seated sorrow. 

Draco opened his eyes. 

“Just wondering what will be for lunch tomorrow,” he said lightly. The wind from the window ruffled his soaked hair; the wind that blew above the Cloisters.

“Why don’t you borrow my cloak?” said Harry. 

“Your cloak?”

Harry passed him the invisibility cloak.

“Then you could go to the Cloisters, and no one would see you,” he explained. Draco got slowly to his feet, reverently unfurling the slippery folds of the invisibility cloak. 

“But… how will you know if I’m up to…” he breathed in sharply. “The map. You’ll still have the map.”

Harry had no idea what he was talking about.

“Try it on,” he said. Draco cast him a strange, unreadable look, then covered himself in the cloak, becoming suddenly invisible, except for his feet. He was too tall.

“Wow,” he breathed. “And you can’t see me?”

“Your feet,” said Harry. “You’ll have to crouch.”

Draco’s feet disappeared. Then all of him reappeared as he pulled off the cloak.

“Why are you lending it to me?” he asked.

Harry shrugged and tried to sound casual.

“I lend it to my friends,” he said. 

To his surprise, Draco did not react to this statement as if it was the groundbreaking olive branch Harry felt it to be. Instead, his lips thinned, and he gave a terse nod.

“Understood,” he said. “Thanks.”

“It’s cold,” said Harry, after an uncomfortable pause.

“Yeah. I’m freezing my bollocks off. Let’s go back to bed,” said Draco. 


	10. Chapter 10

  
“Do you ever not look miserable?” asked Mirth. Draco scowled at her.

 _“We rest—a dream has power to poison sleep;_  
 _We rise—one wandering thought pollutes the day,”_ said Astoria. 

“What’s that, in English?” asked Mirth, meeting Astoria’s eyes in the mirror. Astoria was showing her a new hairstyle. Draco lounged on the dressing table, sulking and being a general nuisance. However unhappy he may have looked, it actually gave him some comfort to annoy Mirth, because she _put up_ with him. 

“Shelley,” said Astoria.

“My day’s _hasn’t_ been poisoned by a wandering thought,” said Draco. “You should cut a fringe, Mirth. You look prettier when you can’t see your face.”

Mirth stabbed his hand with a bobby pin.

“Ow!” said Draco. 

“Mystery makes everyone more beautiful,” said Astoria. “Everyone’s more attractive, when they’re wearing sunglasses.”

“What are sunglasses?” asked Draco. 

“Open that drawer,” said Mirth. Draco opened it and found a pair of dark glasses. He put them on and checked himself out. 

“Oh, yeah. I’d fuck me,” he said.

“There,” said Astoria, drawing back from Mirth. She curled and pinned Mirth’s hair so that her rather hard features were softened and shaded. “What do you think?”

“It’s so… girly,” said Mirth.

“It looks wonderful,” said Astoria warmly. She never spoke like that to Draco. She and Mirth watched each other intently in the mirror. 

“You think so?” asked Mirth. A flush crept up her neck.

“You look beautiful,” said Astoria, moving a curl on Mirth’s head with a reverence that Draco was quite certain she would never feel about him. 

Mirth licked her lips. This seemed to startle Astoria out of her reverie. 

“Anyway, it’s just an option,” she said. “Draco, when are you visiting Goyle?”

“Er?” said Draco, reeling from this sudden change in tone. “On Wednesday.”

“That’ll be nice,” said Astoria, moving away from Mirth to go look for something in her wardrobe. Mirth tugged unhappily at the bobby pins in her hair, pulling the hairstyle down around her ears. 

Draco flicked her in the forehead.

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” 

Draco motioned towards Astoria with his head. 

“What?” said Mirth.

“Never mind,” said Draco. “You’re ill-tempered. You’ll never find a husband.”

“You’re such a sexist.”

“Something odd happened to me yesterday,” said Draco. “Potter asked me to be friends with him.”

Astoria whirled around.

 _“Did he?”_ she asked. 

Draco and Mirth exchanged looks.

“Why?” asked Draco. “Is that part of your Grand Plan?”

“No,” said Astoria, looking lost in thought, “but it helps.”

“It doesn’t help anything,” said Draco, knocking over Mirth’s perfume bottles as he leant back on his elbows. “He’s just keeping an eye on me. Protecting the masses from my conniving ways. I’ve tried telling him I’m not up to anything, but of course he doesn’t listen to me.”

“Probably because historically, you _have_ been up to something,” said Mirth. Draco took off the sunglasses and shoved them onto her face.

“Much better,” he said. “With these, and a fringe, and a scarf, you’re well on your way to beauty.”

“Fuck off,” said Mirth, flapping at his hand, but she was smiling. 

“You don’t think he actually wants to be friends?” asked Astoria. 

“Potter? No,” laughed Draco. Then, more seriously, “No. He’s just got his auror training wheels on.”

“If that’s true, he could cause you trouble,” said Astoria. 

“Yeah, _I know,”_ said Draco. 

And not only the kind of trouble Astoria was envisioning, either. Talking to Potter late at night had made Draco feel uncomfortably hopeful. He wished he didn’t know Potter was bi. It didn’t make him any more of an option in real terms— Potter would end up with some shining beacon of goodness, whatever gender they were. 

“You need to talk more openly about the war,” said Astoria.

“Fuck that,” said Draco.

“People don’t know how you feel about it,” said Astoria.

“It’s none of their business!”

“How are they suppose to sympathise with you if they think you’re still a Death Eater?” asked Astoria. 

Draco closed his eyes. He could feel his face twisting into a sneer, even though he didn’t want it to.

“I _am_ still a Death Eater, Astoria.”

There was an awkward pause. 

“Maybe Potter really does want to be friends,” said Mirth. Draco opened his eyes and smiled at her. They had a thorny alliance, but it worked. 

“With _me?”_ he asked. “Mirth, haven’t you heard? I’m a _fallen angel.”_

Mirth laughed.

“How could I forget. Oh, for fuck’s sake, Draco, stop knocking things on the floor. You’re like a badly-trained dog.”

Draco licked her face, Mirth shrieked, and it wasn’t until an hour later that he noticed he had barely thought about dying all afternoon. 

  
With Potter’s invisibility cloak, he was able to visit his mother’s grave. His mind went rather blank in the Cloisters. He stood in front of small grey headstone and felt nothing. 

The flowers were nice.

The fourth time he went, Potter showed up. He couldn’t see Draco, of course, but from the self-conscious way he moved, Draco could tell he knew he was there. 

Potter conjured a wreath of yellow roses. 

“Are these all right?” he asked quietly, barely moving his lips. There were people in the Cloisters.

“Yes,” said Draco. Potter laid the wreath down on the headstone. He was still for a moment, his head bowed. Draco let himself stare, because he knew Potter wouldn’t know. He tried to memorise the wild unpredictability of Potter’s inky hair. He wondered at how different Potter’s shoulder’s looked from other people’s. They were just shoulders, weren’t they? Yet Draco would recognise them anywhere. 

Potter’s jaw was clenched, and he was frowning. He looked much more emotional than Draco himself felt. _Mothers,_ Draco realised. _He’s always been sad about mothers._

The thought made Draco’s heart lurch. He felt a ludicrous impulse to reach out, to touch Potter’s shoulder. He resisted it. 

Only Potter would show this much kindness to someone he was guarding. 

He found himself thinking of Potter, as he went to Azkaban to visit Goyle. Potter had spoken at Goyle’s trial. That fact alone would have put Draco in his debt forever.

Goyle looked like a nightmare. He broke down into sobs the moment he saw Draco, resting his forehead on the table separating them. 

“I want to go home,” he wept. 

Draco stared unseeingly at Goyle’s shuddering head. _I won’t always be here,_ he reminded himself. _This moment will end._ But each sob that tore out of Goyle’s raw throat seemed to shred Draco’s heart, in a way that felt permanent. 

“Will you get me out, Draco?” asked Goyle. 

“I can’t, Greg,” said Draco. It was hard to speak, because violent images poured through his mind, terrible things he wanted to do himself, ways in which he could release the misery through pain. 

“Will you tell them I’m sorry? I want to go home now,” said Goyle. 

“I’ll tell them,” said Draco. 

“I want to go home,” said Goyle again. 

“I know,” said Draco. He wasn’t permitted to touch Goyle. His knuckles were white from the effort to be still. 

“I’ll come back next month, Greg, yeah? And I’ll bring more sweets.”

Goyle looked at the pile of sweets Draco had brought as if he didn’t recognise what they were. 

“You’re leaving me?” he asked. “Where’s Vince?”

It wasn’t really about choosing to live or die, Draco realised. You could fight against sleep all you liked, but eventually it got you. That was how it was with the black, guilt-struck grief that clutched at him now. It _had_ him. 

“I’ll be back next month,” he lied. “Be strong, Greg. You can do it.”

Professor McGonagall was waiting for him outside the floo in her office.

“And how is Mr. Goyle?” she asked, offering him a biscuit. Draco waved it away with a nod of thanks. 

“A bit out of sorts,” he said.

“Hmm,” said McGonagall. “Mr. Malfoy… I hope you know that I have your best interests at heart.” 

Draco moved his mouth into a smile.

“Thank you, professor.”

“You may always come to me with any problems.”

“I appreciate it, professor,” said Draco, desperate to get away. McGonagall smiled at him and opened the door. Draco stopped himself from breaking out into a run as he raced towards the astronomy tower. 

It was obvious, really, that that was where he would do it. Now he thought about it (and he wasn’t really thinking about it), it was the only place that made sense. 

He stormed through the castle corridors, trying to outrun his thoughts, which tumbled after him like a poisonous flood, furious, endless, relentless, incurable. He didn’t want to die— did any suicide? But he wanted peace. He wanted it so badly he could taste it. 

And then he ran head first into Potter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're going to hate how short this chapter is

“Draco!” said Harry, relief coursing through him. Draco hadn’t been on the map, so Harry had gone looking for the room of requirement. Even with his newfound tranquility, it had unnerved Harry to put his hand on the wall which used to reveal the room, and feel that it was _still hot._

Draco was wide-eyed and dishevelled.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Harry. “We want to play a game of quidditch, and the Hufflepuffs are short a seeker.”

“Thank you for speaking at his trial,” said Draco.

“Er. Whose?”

Draco blinked several times, fast.

“Sorry,” he said. “Greg. Goyle, I mean. Thank you. You didn’t have to. Why did you? Because you’re good, I expect. I have to go.”

“Draco!” 

Harry put a hand on Draco’s arm. Draco stopped trying to get away, although he still looked pale and panicky. 

Things slotted into place in Harry’s mind: the fact that Draco had disappeared off the map. His clear distress. Goyle and the trial.

“You just got back from visiting him,” he guessed. Draco nodded. 

“How was he?” asked Harry.

“He wasn’t on great form, to be honest with you,” said Draco, trying to tug his arm away from Harry’ grasp. But Harry clung on tighter.

“Come play quidditch,” he said. “Get your mind off it. I’ll let you beat me.”

Something sparked in Draco’s eyes, as Harry had known it would.

 _“‘Let’_ me win?”

“Come on,” said Harry. “We’re short a seeker. _Hannah Abbott_ will seek for them if you don’t.”

“That’s a travesty,” said Draco faintly.

“It is. Will you play? It’ll be fun.”

Draco looked bewildered. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I… I had… plans,” he said. 

“Tell Astoria to come watch,” said Harry, refusing to let disappointment tinge his voice. 

“Astoria…? No, it…” Draco looked over his shoulder again, towards the window. There was a beautiful, fresh blue sky outside, with half the towers of Hogwarts pressed against it. “…now?” asked Draco, a little desperately. 

“Now. Come on, everyone’s waiting in the locker rooms.”

Draco gave a sudden, slightly manic laugh.

“All right,” he said. “Why not.” 

Harry grinned.

“Great. And I take it back about letting you win. I’m going to crush you.”  
“Dream on, Potter,” said Draco, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Are you all right?” asked Harry, when they were nearing the locker rooms. Draco smiled unconvincingly.

“Never better.”

———————

It was apparent to Draco the instant they arrived that it had been Harry’s idea for Draco to join the Hufflepuff team. The Hufflepuffs glared at him and wouldn’t let him into their huddle. 

Draco barely noticed. His head was spinning. He kicked off from the ground and felt the wind all around him, watched as the ground grew distant. He was secure on his broom, so secure that he couldn’t possibly fall off without someone noticing that he was doing it on purpose, which somehow struck him as distasteful. So he simply flew higher and higher and higher, relishing how cold the air became as he climbed. Potter was far below him, and probably doing a much better job hunting for the snitch. He had to be, given that Draco wasn’t hunting at all. He was just wondering whether Misty would forgive him. Would _have_ forgiven him? He hadn’t decided yet whether his attempt had been cancelled or postponed. 

Potter looked good on his broom. Potter looked good all the time. Potter was good. What a joy it must be, thought Draco, to know that you added value to the world. 

_I used to be more fun,_ he reflected. 

He saw Smith do it. Saw Smith look at him, take aim, and hit the bludger straight at him. He saw the bludger coming from miles away. It would have been effortless to dodge it. Instinctive, even. 

Instead, he steeled himself, took his hands off his broom handle, and let the bludger knock him off his broom. 


	12. Chapter 12

_It’s really happening,_ he thought.

The wind was loud in his ears. 

_This is really happening._

The wind whipped the tears out of his eyes. Everything was surreal and slow, like swimming in a dream.

_It’s really happening._

He landed with jolt. 

The first thing he noticed was how loud it was, and how confusing. He felt just as if he had had a dream about falling, and had woken up with a thump feeling flat and pancake-y on his bed. His body felt strange. Not unpleasant, just strange. Empty, as if it had been pumped full of air.

“Draco,” someone was saying. He propped himself up on his elbows. It was Granger.

“I’m alive?” he asked her.

She was casting spells at him. 

“Broken ribs. Yes, you’re alive. Thank goodness Harry and I cast a cushioning charm at the same time, or I doubt it would have been strong enough. Zacharias, be quiet, won’t you?”

Draco became aware of another individual voice out of all the noise. He turned his head and saw Zacharias Smith, sobbing into his hands.

“I thought you’d dodge it, I thought you’d _seen_ me, I was just being a dick, I thought you’d seen me…”

“I did see you,” said Draco vaguely.

“You’re in shock,” said Hermione. “We need to get you to the hospital wing.” 

“I’ll take him,” said another voice; a safe, familiar voice, one Draco trusted. Harry knelt beside him and Draco leant into his arm. “Is he okay?” asked Harry. 

“He’ll be all right,” said Hermione. “He’s just a bit shaken. Don’t jostle him, I don’t know how his ribs splintered. He might pierce his lung.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Harry. Then his voice was in Draco’s ear, slightly too loud and close. “Can you get up?”

Draco nodded, although when he tried to move, he had to stop because of a sharp pain in his ribs. Harry put his hands under Draco’s arms and pulled him to his feet. 

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Draco took a few steps. One of his arms was still thrown around Harry’s shoulders. 

“Easy,” said Harry. “Not too fast.”

The noise ebbed away as they left the pitch behind. Draco’s blood sang through him, exultantly alive. Colours accosted him with their brightness. 

“Smith’s a scumbag,” said Harry. “And he doesn’t have an excuse, like you did. _His_ parents are lovely, apparently.”

Draco had known Harry thought he was a scumbag, but it was still disheartening to hear him say so. He tried to let go of Harry’s shoulder’s, but Harry tightened his grip around his waist. 

“Where are you going? Hold on to me,” he said, so Draco obeyed. 

“I’m going to kill him,” said Harry. “If Hermione hadn’t acted so fast, you’d be dead.”

“What’s it like, being good?” asked Draco.

“What?”

“Never mind,” said Draco. He couldn’t seem to fill up his lungs with enough air; not because of his ribs, but because he was breathing too deeply. He was still so astonished to be alive.

“I don’t really believe in good and evil,” said Harry. “Not since Snape. Are you all right? Did you hit your head?”

Draco touched the back of his skull. 

“I don’t think so,” he said. He leant closer to Harry. “You’re so warm.”

Harry breathed in sharply and flattened his hand against Draco’s side. Draco tilted his head into Harry’s. 

“You’re pretty out of it,” said Harry. Draco didn’t answer. His mind was still out of breath. 

Madam Pomfrey made Draco lie down on a bed. She stripped off his shirt (Harry looked pointedly away, even though Draco had hidden his Mark—but Draco didn’t blame him for not wanting to risk seeing it. Draco hated looking at it, himself) and cast several bone-knitting spells at his chest.

“Right as rain,” she said. “I can keep you here overnight, if you like?”

“No!” said Draco. The explosions were worse when he slept in new places. “Thank you.”

“Mr. Potter, would you be so kind as to bring back a plate of food from the great hall for Mr. Malfoy’s dinner?” asked Madam Pomfrey. “I don’t want people crowding him tonight.”

“Yeah, of course,” said Harry. 

He returned ten minutes later with a plate piled high with all the vegetarian dinner options. 

“You didn’t get me any meat,” said Draco, balancing the plate on his knees. He had put his shirt back on, so that Potter wouldn’t have to look at his arm.

“I thought you didn’t eat it anymore?”

“I don’t,” said Draco. 

Potter would make a good auror. He didn’t miss a trick. 

“Why did you become a vegetarian?” asked Potter, leaning forward. He was sitting on the chair next to Draco’s bed.

“There was an incident with a peacock,” said Draco. 

Potter laughed. 

“Fine, don’t tell me.”

Guilt gnawed at Draco. The least he could do was make it easy for Potter to keep tabs on him. 

“I don’t like blood,” said Draco. “I know meat isn’t usually bloody; but I don’t want to be even peripherally involved with it.”

Potter’s face grew serious.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said. 

There was always something dizzying about Potter’s company. He was just so _important_. It was like hanging out with someone out of a history text book. Potter would probably hate that. Potter probably wanted to be thought of as a _person_ , which was ridiculous, because everyone knew he was Goodness Incarnate and basically divine. He’d have to be, to bring Draco dinner, even though he thought—knew?— that Draco was a scumbag. 

Draco put his fork down. He wasn’t hungry, after all. The last of the joy that had rushed in on him when he survived the fall seeped away, leaving the world colourless and blank. 

“I’m sorry about Goyle,” said Potter, not looking at him. “They shouldn’t have sent him to Azkaban. I mean, Azkaban’s a disgrace, anyway. Hermione’s already started drafting out a prison reform act. But. Yeah. I didn’t want Goyle to go to prison. It must be really shit, visiting him. I can’t imagine.”

Draco set his almost-untouched plate of food on the bedside table. It was hard to swallow his pride, but as before, when he had asked Potter to speak to the elves on Misty’s behalf, he forced himself to.

“Do you think it would shorten his sentence if you said something?” he asked. 

Potter sighed. He hadn’t shaved that morning. The dark stubble cut neatly across his face, emphasising his cheek bones. It was unthinkable to imagine that someone might one day be allowed to kiss him. 

“I spoke to Kingsley about it,” he said. “A lot, actually. But it’s just hard, because he didn’t show remorse, right? Whereas you tried to quit.”

It had been a half-hearted attempt. His father had crucioed him and told him not to be stupid. Draco hadn’t tried again. He wasn’t sure it would have made a difference, if he had.

“I figured,” said Draco. “I just had to ask.”

“I’ll mention it again,” said Potter. 

Draco nodded.

“Thanks.”

  
Several things changed after the quidditch incident, as Draco termed it in his head. First, Zacharias Smith became his devoted acolyte. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” said Draco in exasperation, when Zacharias went so far as to check on him in his dormitory one night. 

“I read that sometimes, people hit their heads, and then they’re fine for like a week, but then suddenly they just _die_ ,” said Smith. 

“If I die, I promise not to sue,” said Draco. He heard a small laugh from Potter’s bed. Potter’s curtains were drawn. 

“But you’re feeling okay?” asked Smith.

“Would you like to crawl into bed with me, darling? How close will you need to get to feel reassured? Would anal sex do it, or would oral suffice?”

There was a strangled sound from Potter’s bed.

“I was just trying to be nice,” said Smith. “No need to make it all about… that.”

“I can get more graphic, or you can leave.”

Smith left. 

Second, Misty started showing up at unexpected times with cups of tea. He wasn’t even sure how she had heard about the quidditch incident, but she seemed to feel that if she plied him with enough hot drinks, he would be saved from death-by-broomstick. He was scarcely ever alone for a minute before she would pop up and start chattering about her fashion designs. 

They were good, in fairness. Draco looked over her sketches with her, although his advice was banal and unhelpful. It was mainly to do with practical considerations. Misty had a habit of designing outfits for humans that entirely restricted their movement. 

“Look. Her sleeves will get in the way if she tries to do anything,” said Draco.

“What would she be doing, sir?” asked Misty. 

“She’ll catch fire if she tries to smoke a cigarette.”

Misty stared at the sketch, dismayed.

“I did not think of cigarettes,” she said.

“Can’t you shorten the… is that gauze?”

“No, no, no, it must be all redesigned. Oh, thank you, Master Draco!”

“Remember that not everyone has a house elf. A lot of people cook for themselves, for instance.”

Misty shook her head gloomily.

“I is not liking to think of it, sir,” she said. 

  
The third thing that changed after the quidditch incident was not so much a change as a development. Namely, the development of an all-consuming desire to touch Potter every second of the day and night. 

This was hardly new territory—Draco had been aiming punches at Potter with questionable intent since puberty—but never before had it reached quite such a feverish pitch. He found it impossible to concentrate in class, because his attention was focused, razor-sharp, on the slim gap of air between his leg and Potter’s under the desk. He continually had to shake himself out of reveries in which he stared, psychopathically, at Potter’s appallingly sexy arms. 

What was most horrifying about this development (apart from the pain of expectations that would never be met, of desire that would never be satisfied) was that he knew he was freaking Potter out. Potter was distinctly weird after the quidditch incident. He seemed to be avoiding Draco, which was a turn-up for the books. When he caught Draco staring at him in the great hall, his expression turned to one of panic. 

Draco and Astoria kissed neatly on the lips whenever they were alone; only once each time, as if to mark that this was still something they were doing. He had some theories, now, about what she wanted from him. Pureblood marriages were notoriously sexist. His own mother had had next to no power in the household. Astoria was not likely to settle for such an existence. She would marry Draco, a man who owed her everything, and be treated like an equal. 

He wondered where Mirth fit into all this. 

He went to the sixth floor window often, but Misty always appeared, and so the question of whether he would kill himself now or later was, for the moment, theoretical. 


	13. Chapter 13

It was unclear at what point the gathering tipped into being a party. Certainly Seamus showing up with a crate of firewhisky contributed to the change, but it was hard to point to a single moment. One minute it was just some eighth years lounging around in the Ravenclaw boys dormitory, the next, someone had procured a magical gramophone and Neville was doing a drunken striptease.

Puberty had been _really_ good to Neville.

Harry was pleasantly tipsy, tipsy enough to make stupid decisions like force himself on Draco Malfoy. 

He had been avoiding Draco ever since the hospital wing. Draco leaning into his touch, Draco saying _“You’re so warm”_ … and then Draco becoming cold and morbid as he came back to himself… it had all served to highlight the impossibility of Harry’s crush. He had liked Draco leaning on him. A lot. Too much. He couldn’t trust himself not to be weird about it. And he was uncomfortably aware that Draco felt he owed Harry something. The idea that he might feel _guilted_ into doing anything with Harry was nightmarish. 

Harry tried to develop a crush on Justin Finch-Fletchley, instead. It only half worked. Finch-Fletchley had an annoying laugh, and also, Harry wasn’t in love with him. 

But Drunk Harry had no compunction, apparently, about swaying over to where Draco was sprawled on the floor on a pile of cushions, and plopping himself next to him. 

Fortunately, Draco was also drunk, a fact that was made evident by the way in which he immediately leant into Harry.

“Why don’t you play chaser?” asked Harry, trying to pretend that was the reason he had come over. 

Draco had several buttons undone. He was wearing _eyeliner_. It was all very distressing. 

“Seeker was what you played,” said Draco. “Needed to beat you.”

“Pathetic,” said Harry, with a grin. But Draco sprang away as if Harry had called him scum. His face twisted into a sneer. 

“Is that why you came over here, Potter?” he said, spitting Harry’s name. “To tell me what you really think for once?”

“I brought you a drink,” said Astoria, appearing as if from nowhere in front of them. She gave Draco a mug of Firewhisky and Draco broke off glaring at Harry to drain it. 

“It was a _joke_ ,” said Harry. 

Astoria sized him up with flinty eyes. It was obvious that she did not like what she saw. She moved slightly to Draco’s side so that she was no longer blocking him from view and took his empty mug from him. 

“Are you drunk?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said. 

Suddenly, she raised her voice, as if speaking for the whole room to hear.

“Draco, I’ve never asked you. Do you regret your actions during the war?”

“Yes,” said Draco instantly, then frowned.

“Why?” asked Astoria. The room had fallen silent. The gramophone was magically designed to tune into the noise level of the people around it, so the music died away, too. 

Draco answered so fast it was as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Because the things I did were evil and when I remember them I want to throw myself off the astronomy tower and I can’t imagine how anyone could live with themselves with so much guilt and grief—you _drugged_ me?!”

Astoria leant away from Draco as if he was no more than a pesky fly at a picnic.

“That’s terrible,” she said evenly. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Draco was struggling among the many cushions on the floor, trying to get to his feet, muttering “fuck, _fuck!_ ” 

But something he had said jumped out at Harry. 

“The astronomy tower,” said Harry. “Is that where you were going, after visiting Goyle?” 

Draco glared at him.

“Yes,” he said. “Don’t ask me anything else.”

“Were you going to _jump?”_ asked Harry, horrified. 

“Yes, shut up!”

“Hang on,” said Zacharias Smith. Draco finally managed to stand and started picking his way towards the door, knocking over countless mugs of alcohol as he went. “Did you see me hit that bludger at you?”

“Yes,” said Draco, through gritted teeth.

“And you didn’t dodge, you suicidal prick! You would have saddled me with guilt for the rest of my life!”

“Yes,” said Draco. He turned to look at Astoria, who looked perfectly calm and composed. “Fuck you.”

He yanked open the door and fled.

“Draco, wait,” said Harry, jumping up to follow him. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say, only that he didn’t want Draco going off, drunk and alone and embarrassed. But Draco didn’t wait, of course. He was halfway down the corridor when Harry caught up with him. Harry grabbed his upper arm.

“Where are you going?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know. Somewhere high up.”

“To jump?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know,” said Draco wildly. Harry took his other arm. Draco was strangely pliant and lurched forward until they were cheek to cheek. “You don’t need to wait till I’m fucking dosed up on veritaserum to interrogate me, Potter, I’ve already told you, I’ll answer any questions you like, I _owe_ you!”

Harry’s hands moved, of their own accord, until he was holding Draco close, one hand in Draco’s hair and the other on his lower back. 

“Do you really think that?” asked Harry. His lips brushed against Draco’s ear with every word. “That you owe me?”

“Of course,” said Draco, into Harry’s neck. 

“Is that why you’re letting me touch you?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Draco, “feels nice.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Yeah?” 

Draco nodded, his nose moving against the sensitive skin of Harry’s neck. Harry turned his head, nudging Draco’s face up until they were looking at each other. Draco looked catastrophically drunk. He licked his lips and slowly, hesitatingly, tilted his face towards Harry’s. 

Their mouths met so briefly Harry wasn’t even sure it counted. 

The dormitory door opened, disgorging drunk eighth years into the corridor. 

_Astoria_ , thought Harry, and drew away. Draco blinked, confused. Harry caught sight of Astoria’s brown hair coming towards them. 

“Aren’t you with Astoria?” he asked Draco. Draco swayed slightly.

“Yes. I think we’re engaged,” he said. 

“Oh,” said Harry. Astoria came gracefully to Draco’s side.

“Is there a problem?” she asked Harry.

“I didn’t know,” said Harry stupidly. 

Astoria raised an eyebrow. She was six inches shorter than Harry, yet she made him feel like a child. Of course Draco would end up with someone like that. Someone intimidating and gorgeous and cultured. 

“That you were engaged,” said Harry, because she was still looking at him. Astoria glanced at Draco, who shrugged. 

“I’m still angry with you,” he said. 

“This is the first I’ve heard of our engagement,” said Astoria to Draco. “But I accept, of course.”

Harry gaped at her. He had not only not succeeded in seducing Draco. He had actually _proposed to Draco’s girlfriend for him._

Draco gripped Harry’s arm.

“Take me away before I hex her,” he said. 

“It was for your own good,” called Astoria, as Harry obediently led Draco back to their dormitory. 

“Did you just propose to my girlfriend for me, Potter?” asked Draco, slurring his words.

“Yes,” said Harry. 

“Good of you,” said Draco, stumbling over his own feet as they crossed the threshold into their dorm. Harry put his hand on Draco’s waist to steady him. Draco curled into Harry’s touch, stepping close to Harry’s chest. “You smell much better than expected,” he said.

“What a shitty compliment,” said Harry. His arms were full of Draco again somehow. Draco was engaged, and Harry was drunk, and he had no clue how to proceed. 

“It’s been a shitty night,” said Draco. “Is that why you kissed me? To cheer me up.”

“You kissed me,” said Harry. Draco groaned.

“I did, didn’t I, and you went along with it, because you’re perfect,” he said, burrowing his face into Harry’s shoulder. Harry did not correct him. He was horrified at the notion of Draco discovering his feelings and feeling conflicted about his relationship with Astoria. He didn’t want Draco to think he owed Harry… that. 

“That was mental, with—oh!” said Ron, coming into the dorm with Dean and Seamus. “Are you two shagging, then?”

“No,” said Harry glumly. Draco broke free of his grasp and climbed, fully clothed, onto his bed. He drew the curtains. A second later, his hand reappeared as he chucked his shoes on the floor. 

Harry got into his own bed and lay awake, listening to the sound of Draco falling fitfully asleep. 


	14. Chapter 14

When Harry got to breakfast, Draco was seated in between Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table. He had traces of yesterday’s eyeliner. His hair looked thoroughly slept-in. It was sexy, which was absolutely not what Harry had wanted from breakfast. 

“Er, morning,” said Harry.

“You’re not supposed to hit women,” said Draco, slicing into a poached egg, “so I am keeping my distance from Astoria until the urge passes.”

“You’re not supposed to _want_ to hit women,” said Hermione. 

“That’s sexist,” said Draco. “I want to hit everyone.”

“So the engagement’s off?” said Harry.

Draco rolled his eyes.

“You don’t call off a marriage over something small like _betrayal_ , Potter.”

“No, right, of course not,” said Harry. “What was I thinking.”

“It was very wrong of her to drug you,” said Hermione. “But in a way, I’m glad she did. It’s concerning to hear that you’ve been struggling with depression.”

“I haven’t been,” said Draco. “I’m fine. I was being dramatic.”

“You admitted, on veritaserum, that you want to kill yourself,” said Hermione. 

Draco sent Harry a pleading look.

“Leave off, Hermione,” said Harry. “It’s too early.”

Hermione pursed her lips.

“I think you should go to Madam Pomfrey,” she said. 

Draco sneered at her. It was strange to realise that he didn’t mean it to be as nasty as it looked.

“What for? D’you reckon she has some magical make-my-parents-alive-again potion?”

Hermione flushed, but did not back down. 

“Clearly, you need help,” she said. 

“If you ever want to _talk_ , Draco,” said Parvati, leaning in front of Harry so that she could grab Draco’s hand. “I’m here.”

Draco removed his hand from hers with a sharp smile.

“I can assure you that I will _never_ want to talk,” he said. 

“It’s so hard for men to talk about their feelings,” sighed Parvati into Harry’s ear.

“Er,” said Harry. 

“I’m a really good listener, Draco,” said Parvati. “We don’t have to do it here. My door is _always_ open.”

Draco’s eyes got a sudden, mischievous look. 

“That is so kind, Parvati,” he said, laying down his knife and fork to fix her with an expression of sickly sincerity. “There’s… something about you… you know, it’s difficult for me to talk about my feelings, because of my relationship with my father.”

Parvati leant forward eagerly.

“That’s so often the case,” she said. 

“He used to spank me with a paddle,” said Draco, seriously. “And it made me feel humiliated, but also…” he rolled his shoulders, closed his eyes, parted his lips. Parvati’s breath got heavier. 

“Yes?” she said. 

“…also _aroused_ ,” said Draco. He opened his eyes. “What do you think that _means?”_

Ron, who had been holding back laughter, finally gave in, snorting loudly. Draco grinned at him. Parvati looked at Ron icily.

“Draco’s father issues are not amusing, Ron,” she said. 

Draco forced his face straight.

“No,” he agreed. “They’re very serious indeed. Wait until I tell you about the French maid’s outfit the Dark Lord used to make me wear.” Parvati spluttered. “All right, it’s been charming, Gryffindors, but I’ve got a bridge to jump off.”

“You’re joking,” said Harry. 

Draco smiled rather bitterly.

“Yes, Potter. I’m joking.” 

He swung his legs over the bench and left.

“I like him,” said Ron, through a mouthful of buttered crumpet.

  
———————

Draco didn’t have a very clear memory of the night before, but the fragments that came back to him were quite enough to fill him with shame. Extra shame. More shame than his usual portion. He remembered _kissing Potter._ He remembered Potter saying “You kissed me”. He remembered telling all the the eighth years that he wanted to kill himself. Although he clearly didn’t have any follow-through, which was bloody typical, wasn’t it? When had Draco ever been able to conquer his cowardice and do the right thing?

They probably thought he was pretending to be suicidal for attention. Maybe he was. He’d had plenty of opportunities, hadn’t he? 

There was only one solution, and that was to brazen it out. He would simply act as if everything was fine until people stopped looking at him. He felt reasonably sure that Potter would have the decency not to mock him about the kiss. 

In Defence, they were still practicing legilimens. 

“I hate this,” said Potter.

“You’re very bad at it,” said Draco. Potter’s legilimens had all the effect of a toddler punching at his father’s kneecaps. 

“You go,” said Potter.

 _“Legilimens,”_ said Draco, and sank into Potter’s memories. 

Harry lay dead in the Forbidden Forest. Draco’s mother bent over him. _“Is Draco alive?”_ she asked. 

Draco lowered his wand, pulling out of the memory.

“Sorry,” said Harry. 

“What was that?”

“She lied to Voldemort,” said Harry, rubbing his scar. Draco itched to swat his hand away. “It was a whole thing.”

Draco looked up at the ceiling. 

“Sorry,” said Potter again.

“You’re really rubbish at Occlumens, Potter.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, try again, I’ll think about something else.”

“Why was _that_ what you were thinking about?!” 

“I don’t know!” 

_“Legilimens,”_ said Draco, not giving Potter time to prepare. Potter was standing under some mistletoe. Cho Chang was crying as she kissed him. Potter burst into what looked like the Gryffindor common room and flung himself at Ginny Weasley. They kissed. Draco pulled out.

“Sorry,” said Potter again.

“Is that all you think about?” asked Draco. “Girls you’ve snogged, and my mother? Did you _fancy my mother?”_

Potter blushed furiously red.

“No!” he said.

“You sound defensive,” said Draco, who was starting to enjoy himself. “I can’t believe you wanted to snog my mother.”

“I did not want to snog your mother!” 

Several people turned around to look at them.

 _“Legilimens!”_ said Potter. 

It was just a series of memories in which Draco had looked down from some great height. The astronomy tower, with Dumbledore; escaping the Fiendfire, looking down from the manor roof, the drop from the alcove window to the Cloisters…

The images disappeared. The classroom blinked back into existence. 

“I wasn’t ready,” said Draco. 

Potter was looking at him with a complicated expression. Draco couldn’t make it out. 

“It’s always falling, for you, isn’t it?” said Potter. 

Draco thought about pretending he didn’t understand what he meant, but it was useless. He nodded. 

“Like flying,” said Draco. “Flying your way out.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He chewed on his lip, embarrassed. 

“Professor Sen, I have a weird headache,” said Potter suddenly. “Can Draco take me to the hospital wing?”

Professor Sen, who was terrified of Potter at the best of times, nodded. 

“Come on,” said Potter quietly. Draco followed him out of the classroom. He was mystified.

“What’s the plan, saviour? Did your psychic scar get wind of a cat stuck up a tree?” he asked, once they were outside. Potter was walking them to the quidditch pitch. 

“I just wanted to talk properly,” said Potter.

“About what?” asked Draco, starting to feel rather alarmed. Potter’s face looked stern and forbidding. Draco wondered whether he had done something evil without realising it, and Potter had caught him somehow. It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. He had spent his whole life doing terrible things, without noticing he was in the wrong. He didn’t have much faith in his moral compass. 

“You,” said Potter. They had reached the pitch. Potter sat on the grass, and when Draco hesitated, motioned for him to sit, too. 

“You should know that I haven’t so much as tried to kill anyone in _months,”_ said Draco. 

“What?”

Draco put his face in hands.

“Trying to be clever. Sorry. Ask away,” he said.

“You think you owe me,” said Potter.

“I _know_ I owe you.”

“And you want to kill yourself.”

“Not that much, clearly,” said Draco. 

“Enough that it’s at the forefront of your mind.”

“I just fancy myself a tragic hero,” said Draco. “It’s not serious.”

“Tell me the truth,” said Potter, his voice hard and terrible. 

Draco lifted his face out of his hands and met his eyes.

“Fine,” he said. “Yes. I think about it a lot.”

“Why?”

“Why?” repeated Draco in disbelief.

“My parents were murdered too, Draco. My life is still worth living.”

Draco laughed, but Potter didn’t.

“Oh,” said Draco. “You’re serious… Potter, there is no part of our situations that can be compared. Your parents were murdered in the fight for good against evil. You spent the rest of your life bravely toiling to bring light to the world. It’s fucking different.”

“I don’t think it is,” said Potter.

“Then you’re just as thick as I’ve always accused you of being.”

Potter lay back in the grass. After a moment, so did Draco. They lay side by side. 

“It’s wet,” said Draco.

“Yeah, I misjudged,” said Potter. 

Draco cast a warming charm on both of them.

“Thanks,” said Potter. He turned his head to look at Draco. “I’m shit at talking about things.”

Draco looked at him, taking in the slight hollow beneath Potter’s cheekbones, the sharp curve of his thick eyebrows. 

“What do you want from me, Potter? Because I’ll do it. I’m serious. Whatever you want.”

Potter turned his head away. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Draco watched it in fascination. 

“I want you not to kill yourself,” said Potter. “Can you do that?”

Draco sighed. 

“I really don’t want you to save me,” he said. “I know that’s sort of your thing, but I truly think I’d be better off dead. You’re not doing me any favours.”

“It’s not a _favour_ ,” said Potter angrily. “I don’t want you to die! Because I like having you alive! And you fucking owe me, Malfoy, you said it yourself, so for once in your life, don’t be a twat, and do what I say!”

There was a long silence. _I like having you alive._ Draco couldn’t figure out where to put that. Because Potter liked having someone to obsess about? Because Potter missed having the Dark Lord for a nemesis, and Draco was better than nothing? 

But it felt good. To be told explicitly not to do it. It felt good. 

“I’ll… try,” said Draco. 

Potter let out a loud sigh. 

“I want you to know that this is the most embarrassing conversation I’ve ever had,” added Draco. “I will be cringing at the memory of this for years to come.”

Potter laughed. 

“As long as it’s for years,” he said. 


	15. Chapter 15

  
“You’ve got to forgive me sometime,” said Astoria, jogging to keep up with him as he strode down a corridor, Potter at his side.

“Not yet. More grovelling,” said Draco.  
  
“It had to be done,” said Astoria. “People thought you were bitter about losing.”

“I _am_ bitter about losing,” said Draco. “Potter, will you hex her for me?”

“I’m not your bodyguard,” said Potter.

“Just my guard. Got it,” said Draco. Potter scoffed but did not deny it. 

“Fine,” said Astoria. “Kiss me.”

Draco stopped, rolled his eyes, and pecked her on the lips. Truthfully, he wasn’t even angry at her anymore. It was the sort of betrayal he was used to; people manipulating him because they loved him and thought they knew best. Love _was_ manipulative, maybe. And he wasn’t going to get a better offer on the rest of his life than marrying Astoria. 

“You’re a horror,” he told her. 

“Mirth misses you,” she said. “When will you start eating with us again?”

“Next century,” said Draco. Potter, he noticed, had stopped when Draco kissed Astoria. He stood patiently at Draco’s side, hand on the shoulder strap of his bag, eyes downcast. 

“Do you mind me eating with you?” he asked, later, in potions. 

“Would it matter, if I did?” asked Potter. “Pass me the crushed narwhal horn, will you?”

“Potter, you muppet, we haven’t stirred it ten times widdershins yet.” 

Potter really was abysmal at potions. If it hadn’t been for Draco’s help, he would have made Slughorn cry by now. He had seemed so brilliant, in sixth year, although Draco was 90% sure he had been cheating. 

Potter stirred the cauldron ten times counter-clockwise, and then Draco added the narwhal horn. 

“It would matter,” said Draco, as if no time had elapsed. “You know it would.”

Harry’s face seemed oddly cold.

“Because you owe me,” he said. 

“Yes,” said Draco.

“I don’t care who you eat with, Malfoy.”

So Draco ate his next meal with Mirth and Astoria, not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. 

And they had been welcoming, the Gryffindors. He had to hand it to Astoria. Ever since the party, everyone had been perfectly lovely to him. Some of it was patronising, like Parvati’s soft and aggressive sympathy, but some of it was just… nice. Dean sat on his bed for half an hour one night, explaining to him the rules of a muggle game called football. Draco had started playing chess with Weasley a few times a week, which was surreal. But Draco liked it, these ways of talking without talking. He also liked, although it filled him with plunging humiliation, Hermione’s determination to get him “help”.

“I’m not doing it, Granger. It’s a lost cause.”

Hermione surveyed him over her cup of tea. They were having an early night. Tea and biscuits in the common room. Draco would never have dreamed that he’d enjoy such a thing as early evening tea and biscuits with Weasley, Potter and Granger, but here he was. He hadn’t thought he’d be orphaned and near destitute at eighteen, either. _Sic transit gloria mundi,_ as Astoria was fond of saying. _So passes worldly glory._

“There’s no shame in—”

“It’s not about shame,” said Draco, although it definitely was, partly. “I’m not going to Madam Pomfrey and telling her that my head’s fucked.”

“That is _not_ the clinical term,” said Hermione.

“Look. I get that some people have great lives where everything is going well, and suddenly depression descends upon them like a great black cloud, and healers have to be brought in to mend the balance. But that’s not the case, is it? I’ve got perfectly good reasons to want to do myself in. If we were Romans, you’d have handed me the knife already.”

“Ah!” said Hermione, as if he had just proved her point. “But it’s not a knife that you’d use, is it? You’d jump.”

Harry was next to Draco on the sofa by the fire. Their thighs were touching. It made it hard to concentrate, because whenever Harry moved his leg, Draco’s whole brain zeroed in on the movement. 

“What did you guys talk about _before_ Operation Rescue Draco?” asked Draco. 

“Still mainly you, to be honest,” said Ron. “Only it was Harry, telling us you were up to something.”

“Shut up,” said Potter, moving his leg sharply away from Draco’s. Draco felt his heart constrict. Did Potter still really think he was plotting some kind of evil?

Of course he did.

“I’ve obtained permission for you to become an animagus,” said Hermione, handing Draco an elaborate form.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“A bird animagus. I didn’t specify what type of bird. But you can decide that later.”

“Is she drunk?” Draco asked Ron. 

“This is just her,” said Ron, who clearly thought he was being subtle about the hand he had on Hermione’s thigh. 

“If you’re a bird animagus, you could always save yourself,” said Hermione. “It would be like a safety net.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Draco, to shut her up. It was a ridiculous idea. Quite apart from anything else, he suspected it would work, and he didn’t like the sound of that. If he was going to kill himself, he didn’t want to give himself back-out options.

“I want you to do it,” said Potter, suddenly. He was staring into the fire. When he felt Draco looking at him, he turned his head. 

“Well, then,” said Draco, after a long, uncomfortable pause. “What the saviour wants, the saviour gets. I’ll become an animagus.”

Hermione was evidently taken aback by this abrupt capitulation.

“Wonderful,” she said. “I’ve already taken some books out of the library to get us started. You mustn’t tell anyone about it, of course. It would be preferable if the press didn’t get wind.”

“How _did_ you get the ministry to grant me permission?” asked Draco. 

“It wasn’t a problem,” said Hermione breezily. “Just don’t shout about it. And start thinking about what bird you’d like to be.”

“Don’t say peacock,” said Potter. 

An image flashed before Draco of the dead peacocks on his lawn, and he shuddered.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said. Potter’s leg fell back against his in a way that seemed rather conciliatory. “I like swallows,” said Draco.

“Swallows?” said Hermione. 

Draco let his eyes drift over to the common room window.

“They’re fast,” he said. 

“Right. Well, it’s good that you already know what you want. Harry, Ron, you’d better get thinking about your animals.”

“What?” said Ron, seeming to wake up from the stupor he had sunk into, watching Hermione talk.

“We’re all doing it,” said Hermione. “We may as well. I think it’s best if we all choose birds. I have chosen a swan, because it may be an advantage to be able to swim.”

“We’ll be like the Marauders,” said Harry, his voice going soft. Draco had no idea what he was talking about. “But in the sky.”

“Yes,” said Hermione quietly. “I thought that, too.” She and Potter shared a loaded, impenetrable moment. Draco pitied whoever Potter ended up with: how would they ever be anything but an outsider?

He knew what bird Potter would be. 

There were blackbirds in the tree outside his bedroom in the manor. Before the Dark Lord had moved in, they woke him every morning with their cheerful, musical chatter. They stopped coming when Draco became a Death Eater, almost as if they _knew_. Their absence marked the end of everything. They had never come back. 

“I don’t want to be a bird,” complained Ron. “Can’t I be, like, a lion, or something?”

“Very discreet,” said Hermione. “I’m sure no one will notice if a _lion_ starts rampaging around Diagon Alley.”

“You’ll feel left out, if we can all fly, and you can’t,” pointed out Harry. Draco reeled at the thought that _he_ was part of that “we”. 

“It’ll be a lot of work,” said Draco.

“You’ll manage,” said Hermione cheerfully. “All right. Now that’s settled, I think we ought to get an early night. We’ll begin tomorrow morning in our free period.”

Ron groaned.

“But it’s our _free_ period, Hermione! For _freedom!”_

“There is pleasure in labour. Goodnight!” said Hermione, kissing Ron firmly on the mouth. Harry, Ron and Draco made their way up to their dormitory, Ron and Harry walking two steps in front him. Draco held back a little; he didn’t want to feel _de trop_. But Ron turned around as they got to the door of the dormitory and put his arm around Draco’s shoulders.

“I hope you’ll give me some credit for not making any ferret jokes back there,” he said.

“It seems as if you’re trying to make one now,” said Draco, shrugging out of Ron’s grasp, even though he rather liked it (it was amazing how hollow you felt, after you hadn’t been hugged for a while; Draco wondered sometimes how Potter had managed a whole childhood filled with that hollow feeling). 

“Yeah, but I promised Hermione I wouldn’t make any in front of her,” said Ron, “and it was really fucking hard.”

Draco conjured a small gold star and handed it to him. 

“Cheers,” said Ron, and got into bed. 

——————

It was the first time Harry had heard it since Draco had confessed to feeling suicidal at the party. The gasp that pierced the lulling quiet of five boys sleeping. It woke Harry up. He was such a light sleeper, since those months in the tent. 

He waited. Draco always did the same thing. He calmed his breath, got out of bed, and left the room.

Except, this time, he did not. Instead, he padded over to Harry’s bed and tugged open the bed curtains. 

“I know you’re awake,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” said Harry, stupidly.

“Well? Aren’t you going to follow me?”

He was outlined in moonlight, but Harry couldn’t see his face.

“It’s cold, Draco. Can’t you just…” Harry twitched his bedcovers and budged over.

Draco was very still.

“You want me to go to bed with you?” he asked. 

“Jesus, Malfoy. Not like that,” said Harry, although his dick definitely meant it like that, exactly like that. 

Draco hesitated, then, like a miracle, or a parallel universe, climbed under the covers. 

“Fuck! Don’t touch me with your feet!” said Harry. Draco pressed them more firmly against Harry’s calves.

“You’re warm,” he said.

“They’re like _ice_ ,” said Harry, trying to get away. But it was no use, and anyway, the fact that they were freezing barely weighed against the fact that they were _Draco’s_. 

Draco lay his head down on Harry’s pillow and pulled the duvet up to his chin. Harry’s eyes had adjusted to the light, and he could make him out more clearly, now. 

“How did you know I was awake?” he asked.

“You breathe differently, when you’re asleep,” said Draco. He closed his eyes. “I mean, _one_. _One_ breathes differently. Not you, specifically.”

“I don’t sleep as deeply, since last year,” said Harry.

“Ah. So it touched you, after all.”

Harry bristled.

“Of course it fucking touched me. I _died_.”

Draco put a light hand on his shoulder, then quickly withdrew it.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “Just that you’ve, you’ve really got your shit together.”

Harry laughed.

“I really haven’t.”

They were quiet for a minute. Draco seemed to be trying to calm his breathing, still. 

“Was it an explosion, again?” asked Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Draco.

“Do you want to, er, to talk about it?”

“I’d rather die.” Draco laughed. “Although that’s not saying much.”

Harry thought it best to distract him from this train of thought.

“What do you reckon you’ll do, after Hogwarts?” he asked. 

Draco rolled over onto his back. His feet moved away from Harry’s calves.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I imagine Astoria has a plan for me.”

“And you’ll just follow it?”

Draco glanced over at him.

“I’m a born follower,” he said. 

“What do you _want_ to do, though?” asked Harry.

Draco blinked several times up at the canopy. 

“Same as you,” he said, eventually. “Fly.”

Harry grinned.

“So come fly for the Cawdors with me. They’re looking for a new chaser.”

Draco turned slowly to look at him. There was something cautiously hopeful in his expression.

“What?” he asked.

“I haven’t decided for sure where I want to go, but if they’ll take you, and you want to come, it makes everything easier, doesn’t it?”

Draco’s expression shifted.

“I suppose it would be more convenient,” he said. 

“Yeah?” said Harry. “Sure. It’d just be nice for us to fly on the same side, for once.”

Draco gave a tight smile.

“I’ll talk to Astoria,” he said.

“Yeah, do,” said Harry, wondering what, exactly, he was doing. It was masochistic behaviour to get himself a job in which he would be bound to pine after his soon-to-be-married colleague. 

Still, he wasn’t oblivious. He knew what difficulties Draco would face in finding employment after Hogwarts. If Harry could get him his first job, his entire career might be easier. Harry could always quit the Cawdors. He just wanted to help. And be near Draco. And fly with him. And make out with him, fuck. 

“I’ll go to bed,” said Draco, starting to sit up. Harry snatched his wrist.

“Sleep here,” he commanded. Draco gave him an inscrutable look, nodded, and lay down. Harry let go of his wrist.

“Goodnight, then,” said Draco. 

“Goodnight,” said Harry. 

Neither of them slept for a long time, but they were both silent in the darkness. 


	16. Chapter 16

  
“When did you get permission from the Ministry, anyway?” grumbled Ron at breakfast. Harry watched Draco gloomily from across the great hall. Draco had been gone when he woke up. It would have surprised Harry that this hadn’t woken him, if it weren’t for the fact that, with Draco in his bed, he had slept more deeply and completely than he had in a year.

He could always just tell Draco to share a bed with him every night, he thought sourly. Draco would do it. 

“Well,” said Hermione, lowering her voice. “I didn’t.”

Harry was surprised into looking away from Draco.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, be realistic, Harry. There’s no chance the Ministry would have approved him to be an animagus. And it’s too dangerous for him to be an unregistered animagus; he’d be thrown in Azkaban if anyone found out. But if he _thinks_ he’s registered…”

“That’s fraud, Hermione!” said Ron. 

“I think I can get away with a spot of fraud, Ron. I helped defeat Voldemort.”

“You’re banking a lot on our names getting Draco off any charges, Hermione,” said Harry. 

Hermione sighed.

“I know. But I still think it’s our best option. He’s not wrong: he really hasn’t got much to live for.”

“He’s got Astoria,” said Harry. 

Hermione pursed her lips sympathetically.

—————

The first step towards becoming an animagus was to brew the metamorphosis potion.

“It’ll take about two months,” said Hermione.

They were in an empty classroom. Harry and Ron were seated together on the professor’s desk at the front of the room, discreetly playing a game of hangman while Hermione monologued. Draco supposed they didn’t need to listen. It was quite clear that if any potion was to be brewed, it would not be Harry and Ron doing it.

“Where are we going to keep a simmering cauldron of illegal potion hidden for two months?” asked Draco. 

“Oh, that’s no problem,” said Hermione dismissively. “Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. We used it in second year for polyjuice potion and it was fine.”

All of Draco’s muscles tensed. He tried to sneak a look at Potter without being noticed.

Potter met his eyes instantly. He was sitting bolt upright. 

“That’s, that’s good,” said Draco, looking quickly away. “Myrtle and I are old friends.”

“Hermione,” said Harry, his voice strained. “We can’t do it _there_.”

“Why not?” asked Hermione, going through her notes. “We’ll need unicorn horn paste; but I should be able to steal that from the supply stores.”

“Because it’s where…” said Potter. His face was red. He stared determinedly at the floor near the desk Draco leant against.

“It’s my crying bathroom,” said Draco, helpfully. “It’s where I go when I fancy a quick weep and a near-death experience.”

Harry winced. 

Hermione looked horrified. 

“Oh! I wasn’t thinking…!” she said. “Draco, I’m so sorry…!”

Draco waved her apology away.

“Please. It’s not even in my top five worst life events.”

“What is?” asked Ron. 

“Ron!” said Hermione. 

“Right, sorry,” said Ron. 

“Potter. Stop looking as if you wish you could spontaneously implode. It’s _fine_.”

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Harry. 

“So, we have our locale,” said Draco. “Have you two thought about what birds you’ll be?”

“Yes, good thinking, Draco,” said Hermione.

“Well… Hermione, if you’re going to be a swan… I may as well be one, too,” said Ron. Hermione blushed.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, that works.”

She and Ron smiled at each other in a way that made Draco’s chest throb with loneliness. He looked away, only to see that Harry had been hungrily watching them, too.

Draco wondered whether Harry had ever wanted to be with either Ron or Hermione. Maybe he _had_ been, even. Maybe they had had all sorts of noble, heroic threesomes when they were on the run from Old Tom.

“And you, Harry?” asked Hermione.

“I don’t know,” said Harry. 

“You’d make a good blackbird,” said Draco, before he could stop himself.

Harry smiled.

“Cool,” he said, “I’ll be a blackbird.”

Hermione looked disapproving.

“You really ought to decide for yourself,” she said.

Harry shrugged.

“A blackbird sounds good,” he said. 

  
Harry was downright nervy the first time they went to Myrtle’s bathroom. 

“Potter. Chill out,” said Draco, knocking gently into his side. 

“I think it’s the worst thing I ever did,” he said. 

Draco caught his own eye in the mirror. He was unsurprised to learn that he had prompted Potter’s worst behaviour. He had that effect on people. He touched his left forearm. Some people were like that, weren’t they; poisonous, corrosive people, people who made the world a worse place simply by existing, people who had no _business_ existing, really…

“Draco, is this going to be okay?” asked Hermione. 

“‘Course,” said Draco. “Potter, stop being such an innocent little angel. I would have crucioed your bloody teeth out, and anyway, you’ve already apologised.”

“You wouldn’t have,” said Harry. Draco rolled his eyes, but he stood close to him as they set up the cauldron. When Ron and Hermione were engaged in the first laborious step of the potion, Draco leant over so that he could speak into Harry’s ear.

“It’s really fine, Harry,” he said. Harry jerked around to look at him. Draco smiled, and Potter managed to smile back. 

  
“You’re spending a lot of time with them,” said Mirth.

She had no idea. Not only had he spent a minimum of an hour a day with Harry, Ron and Hermione for the past month, brewing the infernal animagus potion—it was devilishly tricky, and they’d had to start over, twice—but he’d been spending a third of his nights in Harry’s bed.

He wasn’t sure how they had got to this point. The first time, he had been so surprised when Harry told him to get in that he’d more or less just obeyed. 

The next time he woke up gasping, he got out of bed and hesitated. He wasn’t even sure if Harry was awake. The explosion had been so vivid that he was still panting, and it was hard to listen for Harry’s breathing through his own panic. 

Then Harry had opened his bed curtains, and motioned with his head for Draco to come over. So Draco had climbed in, as if there was no other option. 

“You all right?” Harry had asked sleepily. 

“Yeah,” Draco had answered. 

And then he had fallen back to sleep, soothed by Harry’s presence. 

It only happened a few nights a week, but after the first four or five times, Draco didn’t even hesitate. One night he climbed into Harry’s bed only to realise that Harry was still asleep. Draco could easily have left, then. He could have gone to the sixth floor alcove window and hoped that Misty would leave him alone long enough to give him a chance to jump. 

He thought about it. 

Harry snuffled in his sleep and turned to face Draco. Draco stayed. 

He always woke up with the sun and went back to his own bed. They never spoke about it, not even when they lay in bed. Instead, they talked about quidditch, or they bitched about Ron and Hermione.

“It’s sweet,” said Harry.

“It’s repulsive. He loves her so much it makes me want to dig out my eyeballs with a spoon,” said Draco.

“Everything makes you want to dig out your eyeballs with a spoon.”

“And she’s not much better, by the way,” said Draco, warming to his subject. “Did you see the way she kept adjusting his cutting technique when he was slicing the dung beetles?”

“You adjust my cutting technique all the time,” said Harry. 

“That’s because you’ve got a hand full of thumbs. I don’t know how you manage to do your shoelaces, you’re so clumsy.”

“I’m really not,” said Harry, with a laugh, “but go on. How did she adjust Ron’s technique?”

“With _devotion_.”  
  
“God,” shuddered Harry. “I’m happy for them, really I am, but _fuck_.”

“Don’t say that. I bet they _do_.”

Harry groaned. Draco shushed him. It was not unlike the sleepovers he used to have in the Christmas holidays when he was fourteen, except with less covert wanking. (Not to say there was no wanking after the nights he spent with Harry. There _obviously_ was, just in the shower, whilst bitterly reminding himself that he was being a hopeless creep.) 

“How are things with you and Astoria?” asked Harry.

“Good,” said Draco. Unchanged, was maybe more accurate. She spouted Milton at him, he tried to avoid her well-intentioned scheming; it was as it always was. 

“That’s good,” said Harry. 

“Yeah,” said Draco. And they went to sleep. 

They never touched. They both slept like logs, not moving, and Draco woke up each morning just as he had fallen asleep: as far away from Harry as he could get. 

He was aware that it was a little weird. It was why he didn’t mention it to Mirth and Astoria. He knew he was being a creep. Potter would have been horrified if he knew how it titillated Draco to sleep in the same bed as him. The only reason Draco didn’t stop was that it felt so warm. You never got _warm_ like that, in bed alone. Not warm down to the soul. 

The explosion was nearer than usual, and he heard the Dark Lord’s high, shrieking curses, and he sat up in bed _certain_ , _sure_ that it was real, that his parents had been killed—

Then it came back to him.

It was only a dream. He was at Hogwarts. His parents weren’t in danger, because they were already dead. 

Pain was boring, he thought, as he tried desperately to stop himself from crying. He was so _bored_ of it. 

Since he had lost the battle with his tears, he at least tried to be quiet about it. He contorted his face and forced himself to breathe. 

He couldn’t put words to his thoughts. He only knew that there wasn’t space in his head for them. It felt as if the only way to make space would be to bash his skull open against a wall.

“Draco?” Harry pulled open Draco’s bed curtains and hovered uncertainly. “Are you okay?” 

Draco took a few seconds to answer, until he could be reasonably certain what would come out would not be a wail.

“Not… so great, Potter,” he choked out. He hadn’t called him Harry again since that first time in Myrtle’s bathroom.

Potter hesitated. 

“I’m not going to kill myself,” said Draco, before remembering that that wasn’t actually why Potter guarded him, “or anyone else,” he added. “So you can go.”

This seemed to decide Potter, the contrary bastard. He climbed into Draco’s bed and put his arms around him. 

“One sec,” he said, then cast a _muffliato_. “Okay. Now you don’t have to be quiet.”

“Th-thanks,” said Draco, not that he was willing to let himself be loud around Potter, either. But Harry stroked his back as Draco shook.

“Did I ever tell you about the time we sneaked into the Slytherin common room, in second year?” he asked.

“No,” sobbed Draco.

“Oh, it was brilliant,” said Harry. “Hermione accidentally polyjuiced herself into a cat.” 

As he told the story, Draco calmed down a little. Not that the story was all that soothing: predictably, it involved Potter suspecting Draco of great evil, and Draco drawing Crabbe and Goyle into harm because of his ignorant blood purist views. 

But several in-jokes between Harry, Ron and Hermione suddenly made sense. He felt as if Harry were opening a door into a secret room. 

“Tell me about the chamber of secrets,” said Draco. So Harry told him: about following the spiders into the Forbidden Forest (“You’re mad,” Draco told him. “Don’t tell Ron I told you he’s scared of spiders,” said Harry.), Harry hearing a slithering voice all over the castle, Riddle’s diary, the chamber of secrets, Fawkes. 

There were so many parts of the story that made Draco want to jump. Harry carefully didn’t mention _how_ Ginny Weasley had got the diary, but Draco knew. He knew, also, that when Harry spoke of his loyalty to Dumbledore and how it had saved his life, they were both thinking of sixth year. 

“It’s an absolutely insane story,” said Draco sleepily. “I can’t believe you don’t talk about it all the time.”

Harry laughed quietly into Draco’s hair. They had slid further into the bed, heads resting together, Harry’s arm under Draco’s neck.

“So much crazy stuff has happened to me,” said Harry. “It’s easier if I don’t mention any of it.”

“I want to hear about first year. What you did to get all those outrageous last minute points.”

“Next time,” said Harry.


	17. Chapter 17

  
Harry was prodded out of a deep slumber. Draco was poking him with long, bony fingers, whispering “Potter. Potter!”

“Mmm?” asked Harry, stretching luxuriously against Draco’s long, lithe body. 

“You have to get out. It’s morning.”

“Oh,” said Harry. Draco sounded agitated. Harry opened his eyes, and remembered: Draco crying, Draco letting Harry hold him, Draco listening to Harry monologue about second year. 

Harry sat up. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

Draco looked fondly irritable.

“Yes. Go back to your own bed, before everyone wakes up and thinks we’re shagging.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” muttered Harry, went back to his own bed. 

Things were definitely different between them, after that night. When they met in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, it felt as if Ron and Hermione were one team, and he and Draco another. Although, that often shifted. Sometimes it seemed as if Draco and Hermione were allied, when they talked about potions or history or fundamental rules of transfiguration, while Harry and Ron messed around with whatever loathsome potions ingredient they were using that day.

“Ugh,” said Ron, dipping his fingers in a jar marked _‘slug lubricant’_. “Is this what slugs use to get off with each other?”

Draco grabbed the jar away from him with a disdainful look at Hermione, as if to say, _Control your man._

“It’s crushed slugs,” said Hermione. “Go wash your hands.”

Instead, Ron wiped his hands on Draco’s arm. 

“Well, fuck you,” said Draco.

“Payback for second year,” said Ron. 

“You cast that spell _on yourself,_ ” said Draco. 

Other times, Ron and Draco seemed to join forces. There was no talking to either of them when they were playing chess, for instance. 

But mostly, it was Harry and Draco. Ron and Hermione were a unit, and so were they.

“I never thought I’d say it,” said Hermione, “but he’s good for you.”

“Course he is,” said Ron, with his mouth full. Draco had stopped sitting with them at meals, now that he and Astoria had made up. “He’s like you and me, combined.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Hermione.

“It’s my new theory,” said Ron. “Harry subconsciously wants to shag both of us. So he found someone clever and pedantic, like you, and fun and spoiled, like me.”

“I don’t want to shag you,” protested Harry. 

_“Subconsciously,”_ said Ron. 

“Anyway, he’s marrying Astoria,” said Harry. 

Hermione made a contemplative sound.

“What?” asked Harry. 

“There’s many a slip, ‘twixt the cup and the lip,” she said, which Harry did not find comforting in the slightest. 

  
“Does Astoria know that we…?” he asked Draco, the next time Draco crawled into bed with him. 

“No,” said Draco. 

“Would she… mind?” asked Harry. 

Draco yawned and turned over. 

“Why should she? You’re just keeping an eye on me,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, I guess,” said Harry. 

——————

Draco was due to visit Goyle the next day. He could not stop thinking about it. He stood outside the room of requirement, one hand on the hot wall, wondering whether there was anything left of Vince inside.

“Tea?” offered Misty, apparating with a crack.

“Oh,” said Draco. “No, thank you. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I is not liking to come to you when you is with people, sir,” said Misty, which is how Draco realised he hadn’t been alone for a long, long time. 

“Are the other elves being good to you?”

“Yes, sir. You should not be staying here, sir, the room is not working yet.”

“‘Yet’?” asked Draco. 

“It is healing, sir.”

Draco looked at his hand, flat on the wall.

“You think it will recover?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir,” said Misty. “It will.”

Draco removed his hand from the wall. 

“That’s encouraging,” he said.

Still, his thoughts chased themselves around his head. He was silent in the bathroom as they brewed. He kept imagining himself bleeding out on the floor. Might Vince have lived, if Draco had died then? Harry made gentle jokes to try and draw him out. Draco could barely stop himself from snapping at him. 

  
“You’re seeing Greg tomorrow, aren’t you?” asked Astoria. “That’s why you’re being such a prick.”

  
That night, he lay in bed for an hour, trying to sleep. Life was long, that was the problem: a succession of chore-like days, culminating in a cheap funeral. It exhausted him to think of it. His mind boggled at the sheer number of tasks he had to perform to live even the most meaningless existence. Showers, brushing his teeth, three meals, going to the loo, putting on socks, pants, trousers, doing buttons up on a shirt, every day for decades, how did everyone manage it? Were they blind to the misery of it all?

He had not fallen asleep. He had not awoken with a start to remember that his reality was bleaker than his nightmare. But he still got up and went to Harry’s bed.

“Hey,” said Harry. “What’s wrong?”

“Seeing Goyle tomorrow.”

“Shit,” said Harry. “Get in.”

Draco lay down beside him, not sure yet if he had made a mistake. 

“Are you dreading it?” asked Harry.

“Tell me about first year,” said Draco. Harry smiled. They faced each other, not touching.

“Yeah, all right. Well, first of all, there was a whole drama with my Hogwarts letter.”

Draco closed his eyes and listened. Harry told him about the miracle of getting to Hogwarts. About the troll in the bathroom, and becoming friends with Hermione. About seeing the Dark Lord drinking unicorn blood in the forest, about the philosopher’s stone. 

He also mentioned the way Draco had tricked them with the duel, resulting in them discovering Fluffy. 

“So you started it all, really,” he said. Draco kept his eyes closed and focused on breathing. At some point, Harry started stroking his hair. 

“Are you still awake?” asked Harry, when he was done. 

“Yes,” said Draco.

“I don’t think I’ve told anyone all that since Dumbledore, at the end of first year,” said Harry.

“It’s a good story,” said Draco.

“It’s mental that they sent us into the forest for detention,” said Harry. Draco laughed softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Think about how small the first years are.”

“Tiny,” said Harry. His fingers paused in Draco’s hair. “How are you feeling?”

Draco screwed up his eyes. 

“I can’t… you can’t _imagine_ … how badly I wish I were already dead.”

Harry brushed his fingers soothingly over Draco’s scalp.

“You won’t always feel that way.”

“How do you know?” asked Draco.

“Because everything always changes,” said Harry. 

  
Draco stared blankly at Goyle. Goyle stared blankly back. 

“Vince is dead, isn’t he?” asked Goyle.

Draco nodded.

“Fuck you,” said Goyle. 

“Eat your sweets,” said Draco.

“This is all your fault,” said Goyle. “I wish I’d never met you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I hate you,” said Goyle.

“I know,” said Draco.

“You ruined my life. You got Vince killed.”

“I know,” said Draco. 

Goyle began to cry.

“Did you tell them I’m sorry?” he asked. 

“Yes,” said Draco. “Potter talked to Shacklebolt about you again. Shacklebolt said he’d look into your case.” 

“Thank you,” said Goyle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine. It’s true,” said Draco.

“I want to go home,” said Goyle.

  
Harry was waiting for him outside McGonagall’s office. 

“Come for a walk with me,” he said. Draco followed him numbly to the lake. It was dark. The wind lashed at them, and the warm candlelight reflected from the castle windows onto the black lake water. Draco imagined filling his pockets with rocks and walking into it, letting the water close over his head.

“Summer before third year, I blew up my Aunt Marge,” said Harry. 

——————

It was as he told Draco about third year that Harry realised he was in love with Draco.

Draco looked at the lake as they walked, obviously wishing he could throw himself in, and listening to Harry drone on about Sirius and Lupin and the Marauders. 

“That’s what you meant,” he said. “About us being like the Marauders.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I like the idea.”

“I guess that makes me Peter Pettigrew,” said Draco.

Harry laughed.

“You’re better looking.”

Draco started, then laughed as well.

“I cannot _believe_ they gave Hermione a time-turner to do her lessons,” he said. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry didn’t remark on it when Draco called Ron and Hermione by their first names. He never did it to their faces. It made Harry want to kiss Draco’s head off, but so did everything. 

“Yeah, the Hogwarts administration has made some questionable decisions throughout the years,” said Harry. 

Draco knocked his elbow into Harry’s.

“Thanks,” he said. “For. The walk. Thanks.”

“‘Course,” said Harry. He wanted to grab Draco’s face and stare at it. He wanted to fix Draco into his brain. He wanted Draco to see himself the way Harry saw him: new, thrilling, full of potential. He couldn’t wait until Draco was forty. Fifty. Sixty. He couldn’t wait to see where Draco ended up, but Draco only wanted to end up at the bottom of a lake. 


	18. Chapter 18

That night, Draco got into bed with Harry the moment he felt reasonably sure everyone else was asleep. 

Part of him was starting to contest the whole _Potter-only-spent-time-with-him-to-keep-an-eye-on-Draco’s-evil-plans_ theory. Part of him was starting to wonder whether he and Harry were actually friends. But whenever he thought about it, he was accosted by virulent memories of Vince and Greg, and he put the Harry-Draco friendship theory away. Draco wasn’t a good person to be friends with, so Harry, who was good, could not be his friend. 

Still, he wanted to keep watch over Draco, and Draco was not above making it easy for him. Even though it was weird, definitely weird, to spend so much time in bed with him. But Draco couldn’t think about that. 

Harry seemed to have expected him. 

“Tell me about fourth year,” said Draco.

“Aren’t you bored?”

“No,” said Draco.

“Well. You remember the quidditch world cup?” began Harry.   
  
Harry told the first part of the year easily enough; the first two tasks. But when he came to the third task, he slowed. 

“Tired?” asked Draco. 

“No, it’s…” Harry scrunched up his face. His eyes were naked without their glasses. 

“It all gets a bit serious after this,” guessed Draco. 

“Yeah. And your dad was there, I just…”

Draco turned onto his back.

“I don’t hold that against you,” said Harry softly. “I only meant… it’s hard to tell you everything.”

“So Viktor Krum attacked you in the maze,” prompted Draco. 

Harry sighed, and carried on with the story. His voice cracked when he got to the graveyard— _“Kill the spare!”_ — and Draco tentatively put his hand in Harry’s dark hair. Harry moved his head against him, so Draco knew he didn’t mind. He kept stroking Harry as he told about battling Voldemort, about taking Cedric’s body back to Hogwarts. 

“It was so loud,” said Harry. “I was so confused. Was it like that? For you?”

He meant when Draco’s mother died. It was strange to have him bring it up, but for some reason, Draco didn’t mind.

“Yeah,” said Draco. “Yeah, it didn’t feel real.”

“Exactly. Anyway. So then, Mad Eye Moody came for me…” 

When Harry finished talking, he shut his eyes tightly. 

“I don’t think about this stuff,” he said. 

“I…” said Draco. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

“No, it’s okay,” said Harry. “It’s sort of cathartic, actually.”

“Only three more years to tell me about,” said Draco. “And they’re the piss easy ones.”

Harry laughed into his pillow. Then his face grew serious.

“How’s Goyle?”

“It gives me context, when you tell me about your version of the story,” said Draco. “It helps me see all the places I went wrong.”

“That’s not why I—I’m not telling you so that you can feel more shit about yourself,” said Harry.

“I know you’re not. It’s a good kind of shit, though.”

“What does that even mean?”

Draco drew his hand down the side of Harry’s face, feeling the stubble along his jaw. 

“Like… learning,” he said. “Like filling in gaps. There are a lot of things I thought I understood, but I just fucking didn’t.” 

“You didn’t stand a chance,” said Harry. “Your family—”

“Sirius Black was in my family,” interrupted Draco. “He figured it out.” Draco pulled his hand away from Harry’s face. “Goyle’s fine. It fucks me up that he’s in Azkaban and I’m not.”

“Neither of you should be in there,” said Harry. 

“Yeah, well.”

“I’ll talk to Shacklebolt again. He was a minor—”

“I know you’re trying to help, but talking about this is making me feel jumpy,” said Draco.

Surprisingly, Harry laughed.

“That’s the cutest euphemism for suicide I’ve ever heard.”

Draco frowned.

“It’s not cute.”

Harry laughed again.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean cute. I meant _manly_.”

“Oh, fuck you,” said Draco, and Harry grinned. Although Draco still felt weary down to the bones, he grinned back. 

“I sleep better, when you’re here,” said Harry, and Draco’s grin dropped. _Right_ , he thought. He was there because Potter missed sleeping in a tent with Ron and Hermione. He was there because Potter had shit to work through, and Draco was available. He was there for all sorts of mysterious, incomprehensible reasons, none of which suggested that Draco was actually important to him. 

————————

The potion was nearly ready when Draco realised he couldn’t marry Astoria. 

It had been several weeks since Draco had visited Goyle. Alarmed by how tempting it was to think of Harry as a friend, Draco had pulled away. Harry, responsive as ever, reacted by becoming distant. Draco still climbed into bed with him when he was woken up by an explosion, but they did not touch again, or talk. 

But Draco’s mind continued to warp. Some days, his nerves were so frayed and taut that it took only the slightest thing to bring him to a breaking point.

They were in the bathroom. The potion was in its final stages. Ron sniffed it.

“Smells vile,” he said. “Almost as bad as polyjuice with bits of Crabbe in it.”

Draco, who had been uneasily holding off waves of grief all day, was overcome by dry, heaving sobs, instant and unwelcome.

“Fuck,” said Ron, “Draco, I’m sorry, mate.”

Draco couldn’t get the words out. He was mortified. He did the only sensible thing he could think of, which was to stumble loudly out of the bathroom. The corridor outside seethed with people going to class, and Draco needed to be _alone_.

“Through here,” said Harry, suddenly at his side. He put a hand on Draco’s elbow and drew him behind a tapestry, through a secret passageway Draco hadn’t known existed. They came out in a long corridor of empty classrooms. Harry led him into one and shut the door. Draco went to the back of the classroom and sat on the floor, putting his head between his knees. 

He felt Harry sit next to him. 

“Ron didn’t mean…” began Harry.

“I know,” said Draco. “It’s not his fault.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Fifth year,” gasped Draco. “Tell me about fifth year.”

Harry hesitated.

“I don’t want to upset you,” he said. 

“Please,” said Draco. 

So Harry settled himself more comfortably, and began to speak. He told about how furious he had been that summer, about having constant dreams about Cedric. He told about feeling as if he was being possessed, about Umbridge making him carve “I must not tell lies” into his hand, about the DA. 

But as before, when he came to the end of the year, he slowed down. He described dreaming of Sirius being tortured, and being convinced it was really happening. He described going to the Department of Mysteries, and the horror of realising he had been mistaken. 

“And then your father showed up,” he said, pausing. 

“Go on,” said Draco.

Harry described the fight. The members of the Order of the Phoenix arriving. Sirius fighting Bellatrix Lestrange. Sirius falling backwards through a whispering veil. 

Harry stopped.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco.

“It was my fault,” said Harry. “I mean, I know it was Bellatrix. But if I hadn’t…”

“I get it,” said Draco. “It’s how I feel about Crabbe. Indirectly responsible.”

“Right,” said Harry. 

“I’m sorry,” said Draco, again. 

“As I said. I don’t really think about this stuff.”

“Probably good to air it out, once in a while, though,” said Draco. Harry closed his eyes and tilted his head against the wall.

“I don’t mind talking about it, with you,” he said. 

Draco bit back his mocking reply, _‘How touching,’_ because he was more than touched. He was in love.

Draco hadn’t been in love before. It was a blunt, hammer-like feeling. It was a disastrous new form of sorrow. He had thought he could marry Astoria for a life of companionship, but as he watched Harry’s beautiful carved profile in an empty classroom, he knew that even a shallow pretence at marriage would be too much for him. 

“I can’t marry you,” he told her, that evening. 

He had pulled her aside to talk to her alone. They were behind the statue of Julian of Norwich in the East tower. 

“Why not?” she asked, calmly. 

Draco had enough sense not to tell her the truth.

“I just can’t. I’m gay, for one.”

Astoria shrugged. 

“That’s not a problem. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m not dying of lust for you.”

“It’s a problem _for me_ ,” said Draco. 

“I don’t care who you sleep with, so long as you’re discreet.”

“Astoria. This is ridiculous. We’re not our parents.”

“What does that mean?” asked Astoria politely, as if Draco had just used an unfamiliar word. 

“You know perfectly well. It means we don’t have to see marriage as a business transaction.”

Astoria frowned, the delicate crease between her brows only highlighting her smooth skin. She was very beautiful. Draco knew he couldn’t marry her, but he also knew that not marrying her was accepting a life of loneliness.

“Is that how you view it?” she asked. “A business transaction?”

“Astoria… we’re both in love with other people.”

Her frown deepened.

“I’m not in love with anyone else,” she said. 

Draco tilted his head up in frustration. 

“I’m not going to _tell_ , Astoria.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m in love with you.”

“Oh, really? You don’t care if I shag other people, but you’re in love with me?”

“Don’t be small-minded. It’s possible,” said Astoria. 

“You’re in denial,” said Draco. “God, I thought you had it all figured out, but you’re just as in the weeds as everyone else.”

“In denial about what?”

“Mirth.”

Astoria inhaled sharply. 

“I’m not in love with her.”

“Okay,” said Draco. “We’re still not getting married.”

“I’m _not_ ,” said Astoria.

“Yeah, well, I’m in love with Harry Potter,” said Draco, like an _idiot_.

Astoria’s eyes widened.

“With— _Potter?”_

“Astoria. Please. For the love of God. Do _not_ start scheming.”

Astoria put her hand to her head, apparently trying to steady herself.

“But he’s… he hates you, I thought. You said he hates you,” she said. 

“I don’t know,” said Draco. “He certainly doesn’t like me back. But that’s not the point—”

But Astoria was already calculating. She stared off into the distance, as if she was counting invisible armies.

“Do you have any idea what it would do for post-war reconciliation if you two dated?” she said. 

“It’s not happening,” said Draco. “I never want to talk about it again. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“We need to find out what his objections would be to dating you, and then eliminate them,” she said. “Can we get your Mark removed?”

“No,” said Draco grimly. 

Astoria tapped her long, polished nails against her chin. 

“We’ll try hiding it with make-up,” she said. 

“So you’re not mad about us breaking up,” said Draco.

“Hm? Oh, no, I’m very angry. There’s something I’ll want you to do in return.”

Draco laughed.

“Of course there is. What is it?”

“There’s a fifth year girl getting badly teased. I’m in the process of… revamping her image. You’re to take her out on a long and highly visible walk on the grounds, and tell three different people loudly in the Slytherin common room that you think she’s pretty.”

 _It could have been worse_ , reflected Draco, as he and the fifth year girl walked around the lake. The girl, Michelle, was incredibly awkward. She stared avidly at Draco for the entire hour they spent together. But Astoria had correctly assessed the impact it would have on Michelle’s standing. By the end of the week, Michelle was back in the fold, no longer a pariah. 

  
He didn’t mention the break-up to Harry, Ron and Hermione. He was worried they’d ask why. He was worried he would _say_ why. 

Astoria, meanwhile, lost no time in telling Mirth that Draco was in love with Harry.

“But he hates you,” said Mirth.

“Yes, thank you, Mirth,” said Draco.

“He spends a lot of time with you,” said Astoria. They were in the library, but Draco had cast the nifty privacy spell that Harry was always using. 

“He knows how I feel,” said Draco. “I kissed him, after the eighth year party.”

Astoria made a disapproving sound through her teeth.

“That’s not how you go about it,” she said. 

“No, I gathered that, _babe_ ,” said Draco. 

Mirth laughed. Mirth kept laughing. Ever since Draco told her that he and Astoria had broken up, she had been in a marvellously cheery mood. 

“Aren’t you going to draft out some extravagant Potter-catching plan?” asked Draco. Astoria surveyed him thoughtfully.

“No-o,” she said. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.” She smiled, showing all her neat white teeth. “Mirth and I won’t bring it up again, since it makes you so uncomfortable.”

“Won’t we?” asked Mirth. 

“No,” said Astoria. “We’re respecting Draco’s privacy.”

Draco glared at her.

“I don’t trust anything about you, you know.”

“That seems very unfair,” said Astoria blandly. 


	19. Chapter 19

“Are you going to wait until I’m having another crying jag to tell me about sixth year?” asked Draco. It was late. They lay in Harry’s bed, facing each other.

That afternoon, Hermione had said the potion would be ready the next day. Harry was hugely relieved. Draco had seemed more than usually unhappy lately. They had been seeing more of each other than ever, because Hermione had them constantly practicing the wordless, wandless animagus spell. Draco had already mastered it, but it wouldn’t work until he had taken the potion to permanently allow his body to morph. 

“There’s not much to tell,” said Harry. Draco scoffed.

“You say that about every year, and then it turns out you were fighting werewolves in the woods. I don’t trust your judgment.”

Harry wanted to stroke Draco’s eyebrows. He resisted.

“It was a bit of a shit year,” he said.

“You’re telling _me_ ,” said Draco. 

“Okay,” said Harry. “Fine.” He took a deep breath. “I guess it started on the train. I was convinced you were a Death Eater.”

Draco closed his eyes, wincing slightly. 

“Yeah, I remember this part,” he said. “Who got you off the train?”

“Tonks,” said Harry.

“She was my cousin,” said Draco.

“Yeah. Anyway, as you can imagine, the whole train thing made me more sure than ever that you were up to something. This whole year is about you, by the way.”

“I’m flattered,” said Draco. But he seemed surprised when Harry carried on telling him about sixth year, and realised that Harry hadn’t been exaggerating. Harry mentioned the Half-Blood Prince, of course, and Dumbledore’s lessons about Voldemort, but really, the pulsing engine of that year had been Harry’s conviction that he had to _stop Malfoy._

He paused when he got to their fight in the bathroom. Draco touched his shoulder. 

“We were both there. Let’s skip that part,” he said.

“I didn’t know what it did,” said Harry, trying to explain. That he hadn’t meant for Draco to be an enemy; not a real one.

“Tell me about how you and Ginny Weasley hooked up. That sounded raunchy,” said Draco. 

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” said Harry.

“I know,” said Draco. “You’ve really got to get over it, Potter. Otherwise, how am I supposed to get over all the people I _did_ try to kill?”

He said it lightly, but Harry sensed the weight of his words. 

“Katie and Ron aren’t scarred, though,” said Harry. 

Draco smiled.

“No. You’re a possessive bastard. Had to mark me as your own, didn’t you?”

Harry was grateful it was too dark for Draco to see how much he was blushing. 

“That’s not… I wasn’t trying to _mark_ you!”

“You and Old Tom,” said Draco. “Tattooed across my body. Needy, I call it.”

“Ginny and I kissed after the Gryffindors won the quidditch cup,” said Harry hastily. Draco laughed, and dropped the topic of Harry _marking_ him, _Jesus_.

Harry described learning about the horcruxes, and going with Dumbledore to find the locket. He described feeding Dumbledore the potion. Draco started touching him around then, not with his hands—he leant his head forward on the pillow until their noses nearly connected.

Harry described landing on the top of the Astronomy tower, being immobilised and invisible. 

“I know this part,” whispered Draco. “You told this part at my trial.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” said Harry. “It was like you couldn’t hear me.”

Draco chuckled quietly, pressing his forehead into Harry’s. 

“I was just being a mopey bitch,” he said. “I could hear you.” 

Harry laughed, but only for a moment. He wanted to explain to Draco about… he wasn’t sure about what. About redemption, maybe. Forgiveness. 

“I don’t… I don’t blame you,” he said, trying to find the words. “Everything you did was so… natural.”

Draco sighed. 

“Yes, I’m aware of my nature,” he said. 

“That’s not—”

“It’s fine, Potter,” said Draco, drawing his face away. “Pray, go on with your narrative.”

So Harry did, although he felt as if he had missed a turning. Draco was funny and interested, but something had dropped between them again, and Harry couldn’t get through to him. 

“Just seventh year, now,” said Draco, when Harry finished telling him about breaking up with Ginny and preparing to hunt horcruxes. 

“That was quite boring, most of the time,” warned Harry. Draco flicked his forehead. “Ow!”

“You think your entire life was boring,” said Draco. “You are the most stupidly modest person I’ve ever met. I always thought it was an act, you know.”

“I’m not good at acting,” said Harry. 

“Oh, well, there’s acting and there’s acting,” said Draco cryptically. “Saying things you mean, and things you don’t.”

“You’re so full of shit,” said Harry. Draco laughed.

“I’m just tired and trying to compose aphorisms. It’s a bad combination.”

“You looking forward to being a bird?” asked Harry. 

Draco nestled blissfully into the covers. 

“I’m going to shit on Ron’s hair,” he said.

“He’ll never forgive you,” said Harry. 

Draco closed his eyes and fell silent. 

——————

Somehow, they ended up deciding that the top of the Astronomy tower was the best place for Draco to attempt his first transformation. Harry had a suspicion that Hermione thought it would be _healing_. The rest of them had not yet mastered the transformation spell, and would carry on practicing for a few days before drinking the potion.

They met in the common room at midnight. 

“Draco, you wear the invisibility cloak,” said Hermione. “If any of us are caught, we’ll pull the killing-Voldemort card.”

“You’re pretty trigger-happy on that card, Hermione,” said Harry.

“If there’s anything I’ve learnt from history, it’s that public goodwill won’t last forever. We may as well use it while we can. Draco will back me up.”

“Use everyone, all the time,” said Draco solemnly. It would have unsettled Harry, had he not immediately broken into a nervous smile.

Draco disappeared under the cloak, and they made their way to the Astronomy tower. Draco reappeared when they got to the last flight of stairs. 

“‘Feel like you guys, with Norbert,” he said. Ron cast him a surprised look. 

“You know about Norbert?”

“I know about all sorts of things, Weasley,” said Draco. But his smiled faded when they came out onto the exposed top of the tower.

The wind was loud. They stood on the wet, unprotected platform, and Harry suddenly wondered if they had gravely misjudged. Draco was thin-lipped and pale.

“Have you been back, since sixth year?” asked Harry, as Hermione and Ron faffed about with the potion. Draco shook his head.

There was a pause as Harry tried to think what to say. He settled on,

“You were such a twat about Norbert.”

“You lot were idiots, leaving the cloak behind. Rookie error,” said Draco. 

“Yeah, that’s fair,” said Harry. Draco gave him a grateful smile, then shivered.

“Walk to the edge with me?” he asked.

“If you jump, people will say I murdered you,” said Harry.

“They’ll send you flowers,” said Draco, as if it was a joke, but he looked away with an expression of such acute distress that Harry reached out and held his arm. They walked to the edge of the tower where Dumbledore had fallen, and looked down. 

They could barely see the ground in the waxing moonlight. 

“He was a bit like my dad,” said Harry, after a moment. “A fucked up, let-me-down-a-lot, can’t-help-but-love-him, dad.”

“Oh, you mean, like mine,” said Draco. Harry laughed.

“Yeah. Like yours,” said Harry. 

Draco shuffled forward so that the tips of his shoes stuck out over the edge. Harry didn’t tug him back. He wanted to, but he didn’t.

“It was peaceful, falling from that broom,” said Draco. 

Harry hadn’t ever felt anything like this before, this conviction that one person was the world. It was a lovely sort of anguish.

“It was peaceful, being dead,” said Harry. “But I wanted more than that, you know?”

“More?” asked Draco brokenly. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. He tightened his grip on Draco’s arm. “Like. Joy, maybe.”

Draco looked at him as if he was speaking another language.

“Draco,” called Hermione. “Come drink!”

They walked slowly back to the centre of the platform, and Harry let go of Draco’s arm. 

“Bon appetit,” said Hermione, handing Draco a hip flask. He took it from her with a nod of thanks, swigged from it, and handed it back. 

“Here goes,” he said. He shut his eyes. 

A moment later he was gone, and in his place stood a small blue swallow. 


	20. Chapter 20

Everything compressed and tightened. There wasn’t space for half his mind. He left it behind. He had _wings_. He flexed them and felt the wind beneath his feathers. He took off into the sky. 

And suddenly everything was _easy_. He flew, light-winged, into the midnight dark. Thin moonbeams shot down like arrows, and there was only earth and air, and he climbed high into the cool, comfortable sky, soaring, twirling, falling and gliding, keen-eyed and light and unfettered.

He caught sight of the tower once more, of Harry, and in the simplicity of his pared-back mind he flew straight towards him. Harry seemed to know just what to do, of course he did, and caught Draco with sure, strong hands, solid as rock, warm. Draco’s heart vibrated through his light, hollow bones. Harry brought him close to his face and made sounds that Draco was too joyous to register. When Draco fluttered his wings, Harry opened his hands and Draco was off again, flying, hanging on the wind, but when he had had his fill he came back to those warm hands, that low voice. Twice more he flew, and twice more he returned, and sang easily, full-throatedly, against Harry’s warm neck.

Then a distant remembrance tugged at him—he didn’t belong to the sky—he focused his neatened mind, and turned back into himself. 

He instantly fell to his knees. His thoughts flooded back, and he noticed that he was laughing uncontrollably. 

“Draco,” said Harry, bending over him. Draco took his proffered hand and pulled himself to his feet, still laughing.

“Are you okay?” asked Harry, sounding concerned, maybe, so Draco lined up their bodies, wrapped his arms around Harry’s strong, steady body, and kissed him. 

Their faces fit together. It was as natural as flying. Harry’s hands were on his back, pressing him close, and his mouth was hot. Draco had the strangest urge to sing. 

Slowly, the real world came trickling back to him, in drops of understanding, at first, and then in a deluge. He was _kissing Harry._

He sprang back.

“Sorry,” he said. Ron and Hermione were gone. When had they gone? Harry looked just as horrified as Draco felt.

“Sorry,” said Harry, as well. 

“Shit,” said Draco. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t mean—” said Harry. “You just kissed me, so I—”

“Fuck, I was so out of it,” said Draco. “It won’t happen again.”

He’d really fucked up. Harry looked miserable.

“I won’t tell Astoria,” said Harry. Draco waved that off.

“We broke up,” he said.

“You—what? When?”

“I don’t know, a few weeks ago,” said Draco. He was edging backwards towards the door, desperate to get away. It was taking considerable willpower for him not to turn into a swallow and fly to France. A drunken kiss at a party was one thing, but accosting Harry in front of his _friends…!_

“So you’re single?” asked Harry.

“Yeah? Look, my head was all scrambled, you’ll see when you turn, it—”

“And you didn’t just kiss me because you thought you owed me?” asked Harry. Draco frowned, confused.

“Why would _that_ be what I owed you?”

“So you want to kiss me?” said Harry.

“Yeah,” said Draco, too stunned to lie.

“Oh, thank God,” said Harry. He closed the gap between them in two strides, seized Draco’s face, and pulled him into a furious, open-mouthed kiss.

Draco’s knees were literally weak. Mainly from being a bird. Mainly. 

“Potter, hang on,” he said, trying to tug his face away, but Harry wouldn’t let him. Harry only let him get his mouth free, as he continued touching Draco’s cheeks, his jaw, his ear with his inquisitive lips. 

“What?” he asked.

“You’ve been confunded or something. We need to apprehend your assailant,” said Draco. Harry tilted his hips forward, so that Draco could feel that he was hard, which was fucking distracting, actually. But Harry drew his face away, blinking.

“Yeah? I feel a bit confunded,” he said. 

Draco tried not to show his dismay. He took out his wand and pointed it at Harry with some difficulty, because Harry had his hands clasped at the small of his back.

 _“Finite Incantatem,”_ said Draco. Harry blinked.

“I feel the same,” said Harry. He laughed. “Wait, what made you think I’d been confunded?”

“You’re, you know… you’re snogging me,” said Draco. Harry laughed again, a bright, unruly laugh. 

“Because you want me to, right?” he asked. “Not because you owe me.”

“Yes, okay,” said Draco. “Only. It’s me?”

“Yes?”

“Draco,” clarified Draco. “Malfoy?”

Harry took one hand off his back to tug lightly at Draco’s hair.

“Yeah, seems like the genuine article,” he said. His face grew serious. “And you’re not marrying Astoria?”

Draco shook his head. Harry relaxed into a smile and kissed him again. 

It took longer this time, and Draco’s hands had explored a lot more of Harry’s body than was acceptable, but Draco finally forced himself to break away again.

“Potter, stop,” he said.

“Fuck, sorry,” said Harry, looking deeply concerned. “You don’t want this.”

“ _You_ don’t want this,” said Draco.

“Oh. No, I do,” said Harry, with the tone of someone clearing up a minor misunderstanding in the workplace.

“Oh, good,” said Draco, bending in for another kiss. Then, “wait, no!”

Harry looked slightly dazed.

“No?”

“Potter.” Draco stepped away from him, creating space between their bodies. “You’re just horny.”

“What’s wrong with that?” asked Harry. 

“Good point,” said Draco, and pushed Harry back against the nearest wall so that he could press against him. For several long minutes, neither of them spoke. Every pore on Draco’s body was on high alert, and the slightest touch made him shiver with pleasure. Harry seemed to feel the same way, if the hard lump in his jeans was anything to go by, and Draco ground himself against it. 

But a rogue misery came and reminded Draco that something was wrong. Harry would never do this. Something must have happened. He tore his mouth away from Harry’s. Harry whimpered.

“Potter.”

“You’re still in love with Astoria,” said Harry.

“What? No,” said Draco. “I’m gay. I thought we talked about this already.”

“I thought you were bi.”

“No. Just, er, repressed, maybe.”

“Great,” said Harry, trying to catch Draco’s mouth again.

“No, Potter,” said Draco. “Focus.”

“Sorry,” said Harry, looking chagrined. “You don’t have to do anything. _I_ don’t feel like you owe me.”

“Why do you keep banging on about that? Listen, there’s something wrong with you, and I’m not going to take advantage,” said Draco.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“You’ve forgotten who I am. I’m, you know, I’m a Death Eater.”

Harry frowned.

“Yeah?”

“So you can’t get off with me,” said Draco, because Harry still seemed confused. “I’m, you know, I’m evil, or whatever.”  
  
Understanding dawned in Harry’s eyes. _Here we go,_ thought Draco, and he tried to pull away before Harry could punch him in the face. Harry stopped him.

“Draco,” he said gently. “You’re not evil, you mug. You’re my friend. You’re hot. I fancy you.”

Draco actually looked over his shoulder, as if he thought Ginny fucking Weasley might be standing behind him. She wasn’t. 

“You can’t fancy me,” he informed Harry.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” said Harry, looking a bit pissed off. 

“You’re putting me on,” said Draco, this hideous realisation only just occurring to him. “Weasley’s hiding behind that door. This has all been a long con!”

“I promise you that Ron doesn’t want to watch me rut against your leg,” said Harry. “I’ll ask him if you like, but the answer is going to be no. Hermione might be more willing, if that’s really what you’re into.”

“Potter. You’re repulsed by my body. You couldn’t even bear to look at me, on the manor roof. You can’t fancy someone if their arm makes you sick.”

Harry burst out laughing. 

“I couldn’t look at you because you looked like a fucking _wet dream._ I didn’t think it would go over well to show up to your house, unannounced, with a rock-hard cock. Didn’t seem appropriate for _condolences_.”

“Merlin,” said Draco. “Don’t say things like that.”

Harry grinned.

“Which part?”

Draco rolled up his sleeve and held out his left forearm. 

“Look,” he said. Harry looked at it, keeping his firm grip around Draco’s waist.

“I’m not saying your past isn’t a _downer_ , Draco. It definitely is. Listen, can we talk about our feelings after? If I don’t touch your dick soon, I think I might _die_.”

He was looking straight at the worst part of Draco, yet he still wanted to touch him. Draco laughed, slightly light-headed.

“Yeah,” he said, and he surged forward into Harry’s kiss. “Talk after.”

As handjobs went, it was cold and awkward and absolutely wonderful. Minutes later, when they were done and had cast cleaning spells, they did up their trousers and looked at each other sheepishly. 

“It’s fucking cold,” said Draco. “Honestly, fuck the Cawdors. Let’s move to Spain next year.”

Harry smiled.

“You’re thinking of joining the team, then?”

Draco shrugged, remembering how foolish he was being. Potter could make or break his future, couldn’t he, and Draco was in love with him, and he wasn’t in the kind of headspace where he could weather being trifled with.

“I don’t know,” he said, putting his hands into his pockets and making for the door.

“You’re forgetting something,” said Harry. Draco looked around. Harry held out the invisibility cloak, looking smug. “Easier to do than you would _think_ ,” he said.

They walked back to the eighth year tower in silence. The common room was dark and empty. Ron and Hermione had already gone to bed. 

When they got back to their dorm, Draco hesitated.

“Don’t be weird,” said Harry, so Draco got into his bed with him. Because that, apparently, was the not-weird thing to do. 

———————

  
Draco climbed into his bed and they lay facing each other, as they had so many times before. But now Harry couldn’t stop smiling. 

Draco, however, wasn’t. His eyes were wide, his mouth serious. Harry was struck once more by the morbid fear that he was somehow pressuring Draco into submission. 

“You don’t have to sleep here,” he said.

“You want me to leave,” said Draco blankly.

“Do you want to leave?” asked Harry. 

“Do you _want_ me to want to leave?” asked Draco. Harry sighed. 

“You’re so fit,” he said, regretfully. 

“Are you just, like, really insecure, or something?” asked Draco. “Or oblivious? Because you could get literally anyone. You realise that, yeah?”

“Can I get you?” asked Harry.

“You know I owe you.”

Harry flinched.

“What?” asked Draco. 

“I really don’t want you to fuck me because you feel like you have to.”

Draco made a choking sound and started to cough. He had to sit up and put his head between his knees. Harry sat up too and thumped him on the back until the coughing had subsided. 

“No one’s… fucking… _anyone_ ,” spluttered Draco, “until we’ve done the… requisite… research.”

“Research?” asked Harry. 

“Yes, Potter, research. And anyway, I wouldn’t do it because I felt like I had to. I’d do it because I wanted to. _If_ your madness persists.”

“It’s not madness,” said Harry. He paused. “Maybe it is. I don’t think it is. I really like you.”

“You’re supposed to be pure of heart,” said Draco.

“Draco,” said Harry, wrapping himself around Draco’s shoulders. _I love you,_ he wanted to say, but he had the impression that Draco would flee the country if he tried that. “I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

Draco tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong. He hid his face in his knees.

“That’s a new development,” he said. “I think you may be letting your dick make some decisions for you there, Harry.”

 _Harry_. Harry squeezed Draco tighter and kissed the back of his neck.

“You’re so thick,” he said. “I’ve been gone on you all year, did you seriously not know?”

“All year…?”

“Fuck,” said Harry. “Since the battle. Since you stood up for Goyle.”

Draco shuddered. 

“Sorry,” said Harry. 

“’s’okay,” said Draco. “You’re a crazy person. You have to humour crazy people.”

“Do you…” started Harry, not sure how to voice his fear without sounding like a pathetic idiot. “Do you… fancy… me?”

Draco really did laugh, then. He sat up and looked at Harry with an incredulous expression.

“Does anyone _not?”_

Harry’s cheeks strained from smiling.

“Cool,” he said, and pulled Draco down into the bed. He wrapped himself tightly around Draco and kissed him. Draco made a soft noise. 

“You were the cutest bird I’ve ever seen,” Harry told him. 

“It feels amazing,” said Draco. “You’re going to love it.”

“It was insane just, like, holding you in my hands,” said Harry. “I could have crushed you.”

“Glad I didn’t know you were thinking that at the time.”

“I could feel your heart beat,” said Harry. “It was so fast.” 

Draco kissed him. He had a hard time doing it, because Harry was smiling so much.

“I keep getting your teeth,” said Draco.

“Sorry,” said Harry. “I’m just happy.”

Draco gave him an odd look.

“Me, too,” he said, but he sounded cautious. 

“Bed… more… comfortable,” said Harry, through kisses. “Let’s go again.”

“Very sensible suggestion,” said Draco. 

They fell asleep tangled up in each other. When Harry woke up, Draco was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still writing but having a hard time making my brain work
> 
> I will update soon! I have the next chapter written but I like to be several chapters ahead of myself in case I need to make changes. Usually I can do 2k a day but atm all bets are off bc my country is on fire
> 
> To any Black readers, my heart goes out to you and I hope you are taking care of yourselves.


	21. Chapter 21

Ron kept _winking_ at him at breakfast.

“Have you got something in your eye, Ron?” asked Hermione. 

“No,” said Ron. “But _Harry_ has something… er. In his eye. He’s eyeing something. Harry’s—”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” said Harry. 

Hermione cast _muffliato_.

“Are congratulations in order?” she asked. “Are you now the proud owner of a new Slytherin boyfriend?”

Harry let his eyes drift to where Draco sat at the Slytherin table, looking impeccable and untouchable.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think he likes me back, though. I _think_.”

“Oh, you think, do you?” asked Hermione, sounding exasperated. 

“What?”

“Harry. He—” Hermione took a deep breath, then seemed to give up. “He likes you.”

“What happened with Astoria?” asked Ron.

“They broke up. He, er, he thought I’d been confunded when I kissed him. Something about me being too pure of heart to like a Death Eater.”

Ron laughed, but the corners of Hermione’s mouth turned down sorrowfully. 

“Poor Draco,” she said. “He made a lovely bird, didn’t he? I’m hoping we can try this weekend. Did he say how it felt?”

“Amazing,” said Harry. Draco looked up and saw Harry staring. He rolled his eyes and very purposefully held a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of his face. 

——————

“I feel duty-bound to tell you that Potter and I got off last night,” said Draco, after lunch. He, Mirth and Astoria were in Astoria’s dorm again. 

“You _what?”_ cried Mirth, leaning up on her elbows to look at Draco. She and Astoria lounged on the bed, while Draco maintained his preferred position of slouching on the dressing table.

“We got off,” said Draco. “He was horny, I think. And, I don’t know, drunk, maybe.”

“He was drunk?” asked Astoria.

“Maybe,” said Draco. “Probably not. He seemed sober. Apart from his behaviour. Which seemed drunken and out-of-character.”

“In that he was kissing you,” said Astoria.

“Yes. The kissing was markedly, er. Uncharacteristic.”

“Because he hates you,” said Astoria.

“I am beginning to revise that theory,” said Draco, trying to sound unconcerned. He picked up one of Mirth’s perfume bottles and sniffed it. 

“Why? Is it the way he eyefucks you across the great hall every day?” asked Mirth. 

“In fairness, he always did that,” said Draco, putting the perfume down and examining a jewelled comb.

“Is it the way he keeps putting flowers on your mother’s grave?” asked Astoria.

“Does he?” asked Draco in surprise. He hadn’t been to the Cloisters in weeks. Somehow he had been too busy. Harry had been visiting his mother’s grave without him? The thought filled him with an intoxicating mixture of guilt and gratitude. 

“Mhm,” said Astoria. “Although, maybe you think he doesn’t hate you anymore because of the way he always partners with you in all your lessons.”

“Or because he’s gone out of his way to make his friends befriend you,” said Mirth.

“I see what you’re doing,” said Draco.

“Or it could be the fact that you spend almost every waking hour together,” said Astoria, plucking a bit of fluff in Mirth’s eyelashes. “Be still, sweet, I’ll get it out,” she said, and Mirth held her breath. “There.”

“I actually think it’s the nights, really,” said Draco. “I don’t think he’d want me to sleep in his bed so often if he hated me.”

Astoria turned away from Mirth. Mirth sat slowly up on the cushions. 

“Draco,” she said, politely, “what the _fuck?”_

“I didn’t really mean to say that out loud,” said Draco.

“You’ve been cuddling in his bed? And you _still_ think he doesn’t fancy you?”

Draco bristled. He wasn’t an _idiot_. 

“I know he wants to sleep with me, or whatever! I know he’s _attracted_ to me. That doesn’t mean…”

“No, of course,” said Astoria soothingly. “He wants to hold you all night and spend time with you all day and get you a job on his quidditch team and make sweet love to you. You know, in a casual way. That makes sense.”

“Logical,” said Mirth.They were both smiling, but Draco felt abruptly hopeless. The reality of his position came back to him. 

“What’s logical is that he can’t, and possibly _shouldn’t_ , respect me.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Astoria got off the bed and came to sit next to him on the dressing table. 

“Do you know why I came to sit with you on the train?” she asked. 

“Because you view people as characters and want to collect as many as possible for your eventual literary masterpiece?”

“Fine, that too,” said Astoria. She put one slender arm around Draco’s shoulders. “But also because Daphne told me you weren’t— she said you didn’t like to be cruel. Last year.”

“Ah, yes. Your misunderstood Lucifer theory.”

“I respect you,” said Astoria.

“We both do,” said Mirth.

“That’s,” said Draco. He had an ominous lump in his throat. “That’s as may be— thanks—but Potter… he. I just. I don’t think it’s possible.”

“And of course, Potter only ever does possible things,” said Astoria.

Draco opened the dresser drawer and put on Mirth’s sunglasses to hide his eyes.  


  
He and Harry didn’t get much of a chance to talk that day. Mainly because of how thoroughly Draco avoided him. Not for nothing had Draco spent two summers with Old Tom as a housemate. 

Draco went to bed early, without saying goodnight. His mind caught itself up in knots. _Maybe he likes me. Maybe I only think he likes me because I’m a smug, arrogant bastard. Why would he like a smug, arrogant bastard? Maybe he wants to sleep with me for the thrill of it. Flirt with the devil. What happens to the devil, afterwards?_

Strangely, he didn’t think of jumping. It wasn’t a sort of unhappiness that made him tired. 

He lay awake as the others came to bed, one by one. He listened to them fall asleep, holding his left forearm tightly. He had let Astoria put makeup on it that afternoon. The dark lines of the Mark bled through, no matter how many layers of concealer Astoria applied with a careful sponge. 

Harry waited until everyone else was asleep. Draco watched him open the curtains with an exhilarated sort of resignation. _He wants me now, _he thought, _and none of it can be avoided._

Not that he wanted to avoid Harry, exactly. He was just confused. He felt a mistake was being made. Some clerk in Harry’s brain had misfiled the emotional paperwork and this was the bizarre result.

They didn’t say anything. They came quickly and messily against each other. Harry muttered a cleaning spell before collapsing into the pillows with a small smile. Draco propped himself up on an elbow and pushed Harry’s hair out of his face. Harry watched him do it, silent. 

Draco traced the scar on Harry’s forehead. Harry closed his eyes. He looked happy. But then again, Harry was happy all the time since the war, wasn’t he? It was probably some kind of terrible psychological coping mechanism. Maybe his attraction to Draco was, in fact, a mental illness.

Draco trailed his lips against the scar. When he drew away, Harry had fallen asleep. 

—————

Harry was prodded out of a deep dream by Draco’s long, tapered fingers.

“Wake up,” hissed Draco.

“What time is it?”

“Shh! Nearly five. You’ve got to get out.”

But Harry only heard “nearly five”, which meant “another two hours in bed with Draco Malfoy”, and cuddled blissfully into the duvet. 

“Potter,” said Draco, squirming in Harry’s grasp. Harry didn’t mind. The more Draco moved, the more Harry was reminded of the fact that he was holding him. “Potter, people will know we’ve spent the night together.”

“Fuck ‘em,” mumbled Harry. He pressed a lazy kiss onto the nearest part of Draco he could reach, which was his collarbone, and Draco momentarily stopped wriggling. 

Harry was almost asleep again when Draco spoke, his voice wide awake and pleading.

“ _Potter_ ,” he said. 

Harry opened one eye.

“This is really stressing you?” he asked, but Draco seemed to hear it as an accusation rather than a question.

“I’m not _stressed_ , I’m just conscious of the fact that if _Seamus_ knows then _Parvati_ will know, and if _Parvati_ knows then the _school_ knows, and from there we’ve got three days before it’s headline news, and who the fuck knows what God-awful things they’re going to say—”

Harry stopped him with a kiss. To his surprise, Draco immediately stopped winding himself up into a panic and became meek as lamb. 

“Okay,” said Harry, once Draco was soft and panting. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” He kissed Draco’s eyelids shut. “Go back to sleep.”

Draco made an unsubstantial moaning sound and flopped back into his pillows. Harry could feel him watching as he climbed out and shut the curtains. 

Harry was pretty certain, by this point, that Draco liked him. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, given that Draco was a) gorgeous and b) sought after by the entire school as the bad boy darling of the war and c) posh as hell and d) permanently scarred by Harry’s stupidity and e) bound to associate Harry forever more with the worst experiences of his life. But somehow, Draco seemed to have developed a crush on—maybe even _feelings_ for—Harry, and Harry wasn’t going to argue. He did, however, suspect that _Draco_ was going to. 

He was used to fighting Draco, though. It was something he was pretty good at. He was ready to fight Draco into dating him, if necessary. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My posting schedule will still be a little more irregular bc I'm wrestling with my head/the ending!


	22. Chapter 22

  
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Astoria, at breakfast. “Are you taking Harry up on his offer of a quidditch career?”

Draco peeled his eyes away from Harry. It was difficult, because Harry had put his tie on too loosely that morning, and Draco could see the hollow of his throat. 

“I don’t know,” said Draco. “It won’t pay well.”

“You’re thinking of the manor,” said Astoria.

“Why do you care so much about the bloody manor?” asked Mirth. “Isn’t it filled with traumatic memories now? You could sell it and buy a lovely new flat.”

Astoria and Draco both turned to look at her. 

“It’s the _manor_ ,” said Draco. 

“So?”

Draco appealed dumbly to Astoria.

“Mirth…” said Astoria. “It’s his ancestral home.”

“It’s been in my family since 1066,” said Draco. “Breunor Malfoy defended it from a magical siege led by Joan of Arc during the 100 Years War. Prince Rupert, the witch-prince of the Rhine, failed to burn it down during the English Civil War, because Elayne Malfoy performed sacrificial blood magic on the doorstep. Napoleon sent Spanish mages to infiltrate it in 1812, but Andromeda Malfoy seduced all six of them and turned the tide of the Napoleonic Wars. I can’t lose it because I want to play fucking _quidditch_ in _Inverness_.”

Mirth opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“So what will you do?” asked Astoria.

Draco put his head in his hands. The thing was, he _really wanted_ to go play quidditch in Inverness.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Justin Finch-Fletchley told me he’d help me get a job in the muggle finance sector. Apparently they do pretty well for themselves.”

“Muggle finances?” said Mirth. Astoria looked thoughtful. 

“I figured, after five years at a muggle bank, wizards would be more likely to trust I’d put my past behind me,” said Draco.

“It’s good thinking,” said Astoria, staring intently into space.

“I learned from the best,” said Draco. Across the hall, Harry had rolled up his sleeves. It was distracting, knowing that the skin on Harry’s lean, pure forearms was the softest part of his body. Fuck, Draco _really_ didn’t want to go into muggle finance. But it would probably be for the best. He’d go mad trying to play quidditch with Harry after Harry passed his rebelliously-fuck-a-Death-Eater phase.

“You and Potter on one team is going to be one hell of a draw,” said Mirth. “I bet within a year, you’d be making enough to keep the manor.”

“I know. It’s that first year that’s impossible,” said Draco. 

“Mmm,” said Astoria. “It’s a puzzle.”

“You’re thinking of something,” said Draco.

Astoria glanced at him.

“Am I?”

“Are you?” asked Draco.

“Muggle finances is certainly the safest choice,” she said. 

“Yeah,” sighed Draco. “I know.”

“See if you can keep both options open until Easter. That should give me enough time,” she said, gathering her things and getting to her feet.

“Enough time for what? Astoria!” 

But Astoria was hurrying out of the great hall. Draco watched her go.

“If she put half as much care into her own life as she does into other people’s, you two would be married by now,” he told Mirth.

“Ha, ha,” said Mirth, glumly.

—————

The weekend came quickly. Draco avoided Harry during the day, and Harry climbed into his bed in the night. The second night, Harry woke up when Draco heard an explosion in his sleep. After about ten minutes of whispering quietly into Draco’s neck—words Draco didn’t quite register, because he was breathing too hard—Harry took off Draco’s clothes and went down on him. 

It was a predictably effective way of getting Draco to forget about his dreams.

When Draco tried to return the favour, Harry looked sheepish.

“I already, er—”

This was so hot that Draco almost wanted to go again, but Harry looked sated and exhausted, so instead they curled up together and fell back to sleep. Harry left with the morning light. 

  
On Saturday afternoon, they met Ron and Hermione behind the barrow downs.

“I’ve never been here,” said Hermione, examining a heaping hill of earth with interest. “Who did you say was buried in these?”

“Some ancestors of Slytherin’s,” said Draco. “It’s where Blaise and I used to go to get high, in fourth year.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione stared at him.

“You did _drugs_ in _fourth_ year?” asked Harry. 

“Cool,” said Ron, wide-eyed.

“You guys were literally starting secret societies and defeating the Dark Lord. I hardly think my youthful weed experimentation compares.”

“We never got to do any of the normal cool stuff,” said Ron. “I’ve never even had a threesome.”

“Neither have I?” said Draco, suddenly wondering whether this was an embarrassing admission. 

“Ron has some misconceptions as to what counts as a normal teenage experience,” said Hermione, with a look of fond exasperation. 

“Not that I _want_ a threesome, mind you,” said Ron, glancing nervously back at her.

“Everyone assumes you spent months having threesomes on the run, anyway,” said Draco.

“Do they?” asked Harry, sounding more curious than outraged. 

“Let’s not get off-track,” said Hermione. “Are you sure no one comes here, Draco?”

“Positive,” said Draco. “There’s a fairly nasty ghost who pops up from time to time, so people keep their distance. He’s harmless, but he likes thrusting his hands into your chest to make your heart cold. It’s very unpleasant.”

“Well, I think we’re ready,” said Hermione. She took a swig from the flask, then passed it to Ron. It had been decided that Draco wouldn’t turn this time, to keep an eye on things. 

Once Harry, Ron and Hermione had all drunk, they looked at each with jittery anticipation.

“Three… two… one,” said Hermione, and turned into a swan. So did Ron, next to her. Harry, meanwhile, was already in the air, a small black blur of wings. 

The two swans took off into the sky, and all three birds flew away, leaving Draco alone among the ancient Slytherin barrows. 

He sat. 

Misty appeared with a crack. 

“Tea?” she asked. 

“Do you have a tracker on me, or something?”

“An elf is always knowing where her master is,” said Misty. 

“How’ve you been?”

“Well, thank you, sir. And you?”

Draco peered up at the sky.

“Well,” he said. “I’ve been well.”

Misty pulled out her latest fashion designs, and they spent a companionable fifteen minutes looking through her sketches. Draco was pleased to see that Misty had taken some of his practicality advice on board. These clothes all looked _wearable_.

“And I has started sewing them, sir,” she said enthusiastically. “You will be coming to the kitchens to give your advice?”

“You don’t need it.”

Misty looked at him very seriously.

“I need you,” she said. 

Draco looked away from her. His own selfishness pained him, and pushed him to want an end to that pain. 

“I’ll come look at them tonight,” he said. “You’ve got a real eye, Misty.” 

Shortly afterwards, Hermione returned. Misty disappeared with a crack, and Draco rose to his feet. Hermione landed, transformed back, and threw herself into his arms.

“Oh!” she said. Her hair smelled like her, concentrated. His aunt had tortured her in his living room, and yet here she was, nuzzling into his chest. “Oh,” she went on, catching her breath, “oh, it was wonderful! Wonderful!”

“You’re brilliant,” said Draco. It was like the intoxication one felt when sober around drunk people. “You suggested it. You’re a genius. You’re the cleverest person I’ve ever met.”

Hermione smiled up at him, dazzling in her happiness. 

“Did it help?” she asked. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to stop himself. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to forget all the things I’ve said to you.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, cuddling closer to him. He put one hand on her head and tucked it under his chin. He felt like crying, but didn’t. 

Ron arrived a minute later. Draco stiffened— Ron seemed to find it difficult to believe that everyone didn’t want to sleep with Hermione as much as he did— but to his great surprise, Ron simply joined in the embrace, until all three of them were hugging.

“That was…!” he said. 

“I’ve never liked flying, before,” said Hermione. 

“I love you,” Ron told her. 

“Oh! Ron,” said Hermione, turning away from Draco to kiss Ron. But when Draco tried to step away, Ron stopped the kiss and pulled Draco close.

“You suicidal fuck,” he said. “We’d never have done this, if not for you.”

“I didn’t mean to poison you,” was what came spilling out of Draco’s mouth, even though that was _inappropriate_ , and it was the _wrong time_ to apologise, almost like taking advantage, and he was selfish, so deeply, innately, genetically selfish…

Ron dug his knuckle into Draco scalp and dragged it back and forth.

“I know you didn’t, you inept git,” he said, as Draco tried to get away from him. “Merlin, I thought Harry was crazy at first, but you’re all right, aren’t you?”

Draco didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t even know what to think.

Harry landed and turned back into himself. He grinned at the sight of them, and barrelled his way in between Ron and Draco.

“Fuck!” he said. “I love you guys!”

Draco had never felt like such an intruder, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He was overwhelmed by their kindness in including him in what was obviously a personal moment for the three of them. 

“I want to try swimming,” said Ron. “Let’s turn again.”

“You, too, this time, Draco,” said Harry.

“Yeah, all right,” said Draco. 

So they all turned back into birds. The compressing, the shrinking of his mind. The clarity of wings and of wind.

The two graceful swans flew away in the direction of the lake. The blackbird looked at him, and without communicating further, Draco and the blackbird flew in the direction of the forest. 

The ground moved quickly beneath them. The clouds glowed gold against the sinking sun. When Draco was tired, he dove into the woods—falling, briefly; pulled down to earth by the comforting imperative of gravity—and perched on a wet tree branch. Water fell in slickening drops through the leaves when the wind blew, but he was warm beneath his feathers.

The blackbird landed next to him, right next to him. He opened his beak and sang, so Draco did the same. When they had poured out their hearts, the blackbird hopped closer and jerked his head into Draco’s neck. 

They were still for an eternal three seconds, resting their heads together, before the restlessness came upon them again, and they took off together, flying back towards the great stone castle. 

When they landed among the barrows and turned back, Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be seen. Harry took Draco’s face in his hands and kissed him. He didn’t stop when the rain began to fall. Draco didn’t remind him that they were in public, that Ron and Hermione might come back at any moment. He was too stunned and happy. He simply kissed back. 

—————

  
“Tell me about seventh year,” said Draco. 

They were in Draco’s bed, facing each other. They had gone to bed still wet-haired from kissing in the rain.

“It was—”

“Boring,” interrupted Draco, with a laugh. “I know. You’ve already warned me. You’re so full of shit.”

“Fine,” said Harry, kissing him. “The things I do for you. Fine.”

So he told the story of the year before. Hedwig dying, Mad Eye Moody, George’s ear. Camping on the run, dissatisfaction, fear, horcruxes, hallows. Draco listened raptly, constantly forcing Harry to go back and explain in more detail. At some point, he rolled on top of Harry, putting all his weight into his pelvis and elbows, hovering over Harry’s body. He kissed strange parts of Harry’s face whenever Harry felt sad; often before Harry realised that was what he was feeling. 

“…so they took us to Malfoy Manor,” said Harry, eventually. Draco rolled off him. 

“You did recognise me,” said Harry. Draco made a stifled laughing sound. 

“Yes, Potter, I recognised you.”

“What happened to you, after we escaped? Was he mad?” asked Harry. 

“Who, Old Tom? Mad?” 

“Yes,” said Harry.

Draco was silent for a long time. Harry felt as if he was never able to look at Draco in his entirety, because each single part of him was so vibrantly handsome that he could not take in the whole. 

“He got very curious about my thoughts,” said Draco, finally. 

Harry turned onto his side and pressed his nose into the small hollow behind Draco’s ear. Draco jerked away with a breathy laugh. 

“Tickles,” he said. 

“Sorry,” said Harry. “Did he, you know. Did he hurt you?”

“He and I spent a pretty rough hour together, yeah,” said Draco. “He kept using legilimens on me. I’d built up a wall around you in my head already, and he couldn’t tell what was behind it.”

“…already?” asked Harry. Draco swore quietly under his breath. 

“Didn’t mean to say that,” he muttered. 

“So then what happened?” 

“I played dumb. Not too hard, when he already thought so little of me. Eventually he concluded my mind was just smaller than other people’s, and let me off with a few minutes of cruciatus.”

_“Let you off?”_

“Well, I’m not claiming I _enjoyed_ it,” said Draco. “But it could have been worse.”

“So you saved my life because, what, you fancied me?”

“Fuck off,” said Draco. “I didn’t fancy you.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Sorry. So…?”

“I wouldn’t have given you away no matter _who_ you were. They were going to _kill_ you.”

Harry pressed their foreheads together, loving him so much it was almost like anger. 

“Right,” he said. 

“What happened after you got away?” asked Draco. 

Draco cried when Harry described burying Dobby.

“Sorry,” he said, turning away, as if he were ashamed of himself. “Sorry. I just keep thinking of Misty.”

“She’s a bit scary,” said Harry, into the back of Draco’s neck. Draco heaved; Harry couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sob.

“I was such a fucking idiot all my life,” he said. 

“I like you now,” said Harry. 

“Sorry. This isn’t about me. Go on.”

“I really like you,” said Harry. “Love you, to be honest.”

Draco’s shoulders did not stop shaking. 

“Draco? You know that, yeah?”

“You’re mad,” mumbled Draco.

Harry’s hands froze on Draco’s back.

“Draco… you’re not just messing around before you go and marry some pureblood girl, are you?” 

“Potter,” said Draco, turning around. “You fucking idiot. No.”

“Right,” said Harry. “Cool. You don’t have to say it back.”

“Say what back?” 

“Er, all the I love you stuff.”

Draco scrunched up his face. 

“Everyone loves you, Potter.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Me included,” said Draco. 

“Yeah. Cool. Good.”

“You were at Shell Cottage,” said Draco, and Harry continued with his story, wondering whether Draco was _in_ love with him, or whether he loved Harry the way the people who sold knock-off Harry Potter action figurines in dodgy London streets did. 

All Draco said about the Fiendfyre incident was “Thanks, by the way.” He was totally silent when Harry told him about Narcissa lying to Voldemort. 

“After he was defeated, it was chaos, right, you remember that,” said Harry, finally. “I can’t even remember most of it clearly. The next thing I remember was fucking Mundungus Fletcher—”

“I think that’s everything, then,” said Draco quickly. Clearly, he did not want to dwell on the kangaroo court that had delivered justice to his father, or the vigilante who had killed his mother. 

“No one else knows all that, except for Ron and Hermione,” said Harry. He wanted Draco to _understand_. 

“You could get seriously rich if you published all this,” said Draco.

“I’m already seriously rich.”

“Richer,” said Draco.

“I’d rather only some people know,” said Harry, kissing Draco to punctuate his point. “People I trust.”

Draco felt along Harry’s skull carefully with his fingertips.

“That’s nice,” said Harry.

“I’m feeling for a head injury. I’m sure you’ve got one,” said Draco. 

It was Ron who came up with the plan to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas.

“What’s Malfoy doing for the holidays?” he asked, when it was just the three of them.

“Dunno,” said Harry. “He’ll go back to the manor, I suppose.”

They were in the library. Draco was off somewhere with Mirth and Astoria. Harry tried not to let it bother him.

“Seems a bit sad, doesn’t it?” said Ron, itching his nose with his quill. “I’d invite him to the Burrow, but I reckon it’s too soon, what with Fred, and Bill.”

Harry closed his textbook. 

“He would never expect to be invited to the Burrow,” said Harry. “ _I_ would never expect you to invite him to the Burrow, and _I’m_ in love with him.”

“Oh, Harry!” said Hermione. “I’m so glad you’ve finally said it!”

“I wasn’t going to invite him for _you_ , exactly,” said Ron, apparently not finding Harry’s sudden declaration of love worth remarking on. “Just thought it might be a bit rubbish for him, you know, his first Christmas without his family.”

Harry was so grateful that he punched Ron amicably in the arm.

“That’s really good of you,” he said.

“You’ve become so thoughtful, Ron,” said Hermione. Her hands were out of sight under the table. Harry had a strong suspicion that they were on Ron’s leg. 

“Yeah, well, not much good, though, is it?” said Ron. “Like I said, it won’t work to have him at the Burrow. Not this Christmas, at any rate.”

“We could…” said Harry hesitantly. “We could stay at the castle for Christmas. One last Hogwarts Christmas.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” said Hermione.

“Maybe we can polyjuice into Mirth and Astoria and give Draco a scare, for old times sake,” said Ron. 

So it was decided. When they mentioned it to Draco, he didn’t suspect a thing. 

“Ginny and Neville will be at the Burrow,” said Harry. 

“I can imagine that would be difficult for you,” said Draco, without looking up from his book.

“Sure. So we’re staying here. You should too,” said Harry.

“If you want,” said Draco. 

_He does like me, _Harry reminded himself. _He’s just a stubborn twat. That’s nothing new._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be the last and it may take a few days!


	23. Chapter 23

The castle emptied over the holidays. Families wanted to be together, after the war. This was not, of course, an issue Draco had to worry about. 

He stood in the Cloisters, under Harry’s invisibility cloak. People had seen Harry putting flowers at her grave, and now it was A Thing. The flowers spread out from her neat grey tombstone in a pool of petals. The snow was thick, but the flowers were charmed, like Harry’s narcissuses, to stay eternally fresh and vivid. 

She had had this very annoying habit, his mother, of disturbing Draco when he was reading. She’d come into the library and ask, “What are you reading?” 

And Draco would say, “I’m not reading _anything_ , anymore,” all brattily, because it was an annoying fucking question. 

He hoped he hadn’t been too awful to her. He was sure he had.

Harry stood next to him in the Cloisters. 

“Everyone’s gone, I think,” he said. “You could probably take the cloak off.”

Draco pulled it off and handed it to Harry. 

“Thank you for lending it to me,” he said. 

“Anytime,” said Harry. “How are you?”

“Bit jumpy,” said Draco. 

“On a scale of one to ten, how jumpy?”

“Three,” said Draco.

“Wait, so what’s one, on this scale?” asked Harry. 

“One is _I don’t want to die._ Ten is _Dasvidaniya, baby,_ ” said Draco.

“So three is…”

“I don’t know. It seems like it would be easier, sometimes. Not existing.”

“It would fuck me up, if you died,” said Harry.

“You’d think you’d be used to it by now,” said Draco. 

Harry didn’t answer. He drew his woollen coat closer around himself. It was black with a hood, but Harry had left the hood down, so that snow collected in it.

“Harry,” said Draco. 

Harry looked at him. His mouth was set in a hard, defensive line. 

“I’m sorry,” said Draco. “That was a really shit thing to say.”

“s’okay,” said Harry, with a tight smile.

Draco looked at his shoes.

“It’s not okay. I’m no good,” he said. “You deserve someone good.”

“Don’t tell me what I deserve,” said Harry, frowning. He seemed a bit pissed off, so Draco fell silent, and they left the Cloisters without saying anything else. 

Back in the common room, Draco had Misty bring them cups of tea. Harry was hilariously awkward around her— Draco knew he found her intimidating. 

Ron and Hermione were off somewhere, probably having incredibly romantic sex. No one else in eighth year was staying over the holidays, so they had the tower to themselves. 

“How jumpy are you _now_ , on a scale of one to ten?” asked Harry, once Misty was gone. 

“Three,” said Draco. “I told you.” He sank into an armchair near the fire.

“Oh,” said Harry, breaking out into a delighted smile. “That’s good.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, coming to perch on the arm of Draco’s chair; digging his feet under Draco’s thigh. “I thought— I worried that us fighting would make you worse.”

Draco scoffed. 

“Is that how we fight now? With prissy little words?”

Harry had somehow managed to drape himself around the edge of Draco’s chair, so that his head rested on Draco’s.

“Be a bit weird if we started hexing each other, don’t you think?” Harry paused. “Unless you mean, like. As a sex thing. But still, I think I’d rather not.”

“You’ll change your tune, soon enough,” said Draco, trying not to melt, not to give in to the strange disaster-in-the-making which was Harry Potter fooling himself into believing he was in love with Draco. But he couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to touch Harry’s hair. It was so thick that Draco’s fingers had to battle their way to Harry’s scalp. 

“About the sex?” asked Harry. “I’m not saying I’m not open to it, I just—”

“No! Merlin. About hexing each other, in general.”

“Will you?” asked Harry. 

“Will I what?”

“Change your tune. Start hexing me again,” said Harry. 

Draco craned his neck up to look at Harry, who instantly dipped down to kiss him.

“Ron and Hermione might come back,” warned Draco.

“I don’t care,” said Harry, slipping and rearranging himself so that he straddled Draco in the armchair. He grinned. “This is nice.”

Draco moved his head warily, as if he were trying to get water out of his ears. 

“It’s temporary,” he said. 

Harry kissed him again.

“Not for me,” he said.

“Don’t,” said Draco.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t fucking… don’t say shit like that. It’s…” _not fair,_ Draco wanted to finish, but that seemed too revealing. 

Harry pressed his face into Draco’s neck.

“Okay,” he said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  
The holidays were blissful. They went flying as birds every day, sometimes with Ron and Hermione, but just as often, only the two of them. Ron moved into the Hufflepuff boys dormitory, where he and Hermione slept. Consequently, Harry and Draco had their room to themselves. In this sudden wealth of privacy, and armed with Draco’s research, they had sex. It was terrifying, because it hurt Harry, but still felt good for Draco. Harry said he liked it, that he wanted to try again. Draco refused. He wasn’t going to get off on hurting people anymore. 

“It’s not like that,” said Harry.

“I’m not doing it,” said Draco. 

“We could try it the other way round,” said Harry. They were in bed, even though it was eleven o’ clock in the morning.

“I…” Draco turned to look at Harry. “If you want.”

“You don’t want to,” said Harry.

“No,” said Draco.

Harry took Draco’s hand and kissed each finger contemplatively. 

“Never mind,” he said. “Maybe we can try again in a few months, when you’re more sure of yourself.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” asked Draco, yanking his hand away.

“It means that you’re not going to spontaneously revert to being a Death Eater if you hurt me for five seconds during sex,” said Harry.

“It wasn’t five seconds. And there’s no _reverting_ , I’m still a Death Eater. It’s sort of a lifelong deal,” said Draco, thrusting his left arm under his pillow and feeling utterly miserable. 

“Draco. Hey,” said Harry. 

Draco shook his head into the pillow.

“Do you want to try playing a bit of quidditch?” asked Harry.

Draco nodded, immeasurably grateful to Harry for not trying to talk him out of his unhappiness.

Flying on broomsticks was bizarre, after so many days spent as birds. It was much, much easier than it had been before. Partly this came from a fearlessness born out of the knowledge that if they fell, they could transform. 

They played a Chaser’s game, so that Draco could get some practice in. 

“You’re brilliant,” said Harry, two hours later, as they lay on the pitch. “You have to join the Cawdors.”

“I want to,” admitted Draco.

“So…?”

“It’s a money thing,” said Draco. “I won’t be able to keep the manor, if I join.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, but didn’t say anything. 

“It’s been in my family for centuries,” said Draco. 

Harry was silent, staring up at the sky. They had melted the snow off patches of grass and cast drying charms, but it was still freezing. Draco wondered what Harry was thinking. He could never tell. 

“I can’t lose it,” said Draco. “It’s all I have left.”

“You have Misty,” said Harry. “And—” he cut himself off.

“It’s just important to me, okay?” said Draco. “You only saw it when the Dark Lord was living there. That’s not what it’s _like_.” He didn’t know why it felt so important to get Harry to understand, but the words tumbled urgently out of him. “In the summer, there are Rhododendron flowers. I used to tear them open and eat the nectar, because mother didn’t let me have sweets. There’s— there’s a hedge maze, that only lets you find the centre if it likes the look of you. It never let my father through; he got furious whenever I mentioned it.”

“What’s at the centre?” asked Harry, still staring up at the milk-white sky. 

“Nothing, really. A little fountain, and a bench. There are stones in the fountain with wishes carved into them. I used to go there when my father and I fought, and read them. My grandmother left about a dozen stones wishing for a son.”

“Your dad,” said Harry.

“Yeah. And there was one stone that took me ages to decipher, because it was all in Middle English, but not, like, Chaucerian Middle English—”

“I don’t know the difference between the various types of Middle English,” interrupted Harry.

Draco waved him off.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It was this girl wishing she could marry her lady’s maid. Some medieval lesbian ancestor of mine, pining away.” 

Draco sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. Harry sat up as well, watching him.

“The maze disappeared when the Dark Lord moved in,” said Draco. “So many things did.” He glanced at Harry. “The blackbirds. The entire East Wing. Just, gone. If I sell it, it will all be lost, forever, and there will be no one else alive who remembers…”

He trailed off, shocked by a smothering wave of wistfulness. 

“It’s how I feel about Hogwarts, I think,” said Harry. “I couldn’t stand it, if I could never come back here.”

Draco nodded. He felt vaguely embarrassed. He had said too much. 

“But…” said Harry, hesitantly. “But… you’d want to come to Inverness with me, if it weren’t for the money?”

Draco knocked his shoulder into Harry’s.

“Idiot,” he said.

“That’s not an answer,” said Harry.

“It’s all the answer you’re getting.”

  
That evening, Harry kissed him in front of Ron and Hermione. They were all in the common room together for once, and Harry quite insistently squished himself into Draco’s armchair, practically sitting on Draco’s lap. But then, Harry was tactile, wasn’t he, so they probably thought that was normal. 

Then, when Draco said something to make them laugh, Harry crooked his arm around Draco’s neck, drew him close, and kissed him full on the mouth. 

Draco kept his eyes wide open, looking at Ron and Hermione in horror. But they barely reacted. 

“Potter,” said Draco hoarsely, when Harry released him. “What the hell?”

“They already know,” said Harry.

“They… what?” said Draco. 

“You’re blushing,” said Ron. “You go all pink when you’re embarrassed. Like a pig.”

“Is it wise for you to mock anyone for blushing, Ron?” asked Hermione.

Draco gaped at them.

“You k _new?”_ he asked. 

“You two are hardly subtle,” said Hermione. “Ron says you’ve been sleeping together every night for over a month.”

“As, as _friends!”_ said Draco. “Or, I don’t know, as enemies. Potter was just checking I wouldn’t murder anyone in the night.”

Harry laughed.

“Yeah,” he said. “ _That’s_ why I was doing it. To check out your sweet, sweet… murderous impulses.”

“It’s not a big deal, Draco,” said Hermione.

“It will be if the Prophet gets wind,” said Draco. Harry was nuzzling into his ear, and Draco willed himself not to get turned on.

“Oh, Harry’s weathered worse,” said Hermione, comfortably.

After that, Harry kissed him in front of them all the time. He seemed to delight in it, in fact.

On Christmas morning, Hermione gave Draco a book of early French chivalric romances. Ron gave Draco a crate of sweets from Honeydukes, and Ron’s _mother_ had knitted him a bottle-green jumper out of soft lambswool. Draco, of course, hadn’t got gifts for any of them. It hadn’t even occurred to him that they would exchange gifts. He was embarrassed and ashamed. 

Thankfully, Harry hadn’t got him anything—or so Draco thought. After lunch, and more specifically, after their post-lunch orgasms, Harry sat up in bed.

“I wanted to talk about your Christmas gift,” he said.

“I really didn’t get you anything. That wasn’t a cute lie so that I could surprise you later.”

Harry laughed. He laughed so much. He was so solidly _happy_ ; it was contagious. If Draco could only have been relieved of the dread of losing him, he thought he might have been happy, too. 

“I know you didn’t,” said Harry. “Breathe. I haven’t got you anything, either. But…” he tilted his head back against the headboard, raising his eyes to the canopy. “I was thinking, I could help you with the Manor.”

There was a long pause.

“What do you mean, help me with the manor?” asked Draco. 

“Chip in for the upkeep or the taxes or whatever.”

“Why would you do that?” asked Draco. 

“Because I love you?”

“Harry… that’s… you _know_ that’s ridiculous,” said Draco.

“Me loving you? Or helping with the manor?”

“The first one,” said Draco. “Getting money for the manor through sexual favours is actually well in keeping with its history. It’s how Cygnus Malfoy kept it when the South Sea Bubble burst in 1720.”

“Right,” said Harry, frowning. “Only I’d rather not think of it as paying you for sex, to be honest.”

“I feel as if I’ve made it abundantly clear that I’ll get off with you, whenever you want, for just about the rest of my life,” said Draco, then bit his tongue. As if what Harry wanted for Christmas was a sex-crazed clingy pseudo-boyfriend. 

But Harry didn’t seem horrified. Probably because he was incapable of feeling appropriate feelings anymore. He looked at Draco and saw something _worthwhile_ : that’s how fucked up Harry was. 

“Yeah?” said Harry. “That sounds a bit like love.”

“Does it,” said Draco. Harry rolled on top of him, crushing him. 

“Yeah,” he said, pinning Draco’s wrists to the bed. “It does.”

“Okay,” said Draco. He couldn’t think, when Harry looked at him like that.

“Okay, what? Okay, you love me, or okay, you’ll let me pay for the manor?”

“Both,” said Draco.

——————

Harry wished Draco would _say_ it, but Draco was so cagey. Harry still worried about Draco owing him. It was why he had been unwilling to offer financial help, but to his surprise, Draco was perfectly comfortable with accepting large sums of money.

When Harry mentioned this, Draco looked thoughtful.

“I think it’s a rich person thing,” he said, eventually. “Anyway, I’ll pay you back, one day.”

“It’s a gift,” said Harry.

Draco shrugged.

“So I’ll give you an expensive gift. D’you see what I mean?”

“I don’t really like expensive things,” said Harry.

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” said Draco. 

They sat in the library. Draco handed Harry documents, and Harry signed them. It took the better part of an hour, but each time Harry signed his name, he felt lighter. Draco looked as if he expected Harry to take back his offer at any moment.

“So how long will this let you keep the manor for?” asked Harry, once Draco had put all the documents into an envelope and sent them to Gringotts. 

“Enough time for me to risk joining the Cawdors, if that offer still stands,” said Draco.

“It does. I showed them some memories of your flying, and they seemed pretty keen to have you.” 

Harry didn’t mention that, in her enthusiastic letter, the team manager had several times congratulated Harry on his marketing genius. According to her, the only thing that would sell more tickets than Harry Potter, was Harry Potter playing nicely with his infamous Death Eater rival. 

“And you’re sure it won’t be weird,” said Draco, watching the owl shrink into the distance. 

“Why would it be weird?”

Draco made a non-committal sound and changed the subject.

————

Draco was well-aware that he was in for terrible heartbreak next year, or possibly before, but he was happy Harry had given him the money. He had no qualms about _that_. He would have done far worse things to get it, if he had needed to. True, the manor would now be forever obliquely indebted to Harry, which would probably warp its magic a bit, but it was _Draco’s_ for a little longer, and he could worry about everything else later. 

He was feeling low, so he was quiet as Harry, Ron and Hermione chatted and toasted crumpets on the fire using long iron prongs.

“…that’s true,” Ron was saying. “Romilda Vane hasn’t been stalking Harry this year, has she?”

“She went over to Team Draco, from what I can gather,” said Hermione.

“Hm?” said Draco. Harry idly ruffled his hair.

“Everyone fancies you,” he said.

“Everyone fancies _you_ ,” said Draco. “You should hear the fifth year girls in the Slytherin common room. The things they want to do to you…!”

Harry grinned.

“Do you tell them that you’ve done them to me and I fucking loved it?” he asked.

Draco’s face burnt. 

“No,” he said, turning away from Ron, who was sniggering. 

“Romilda Vane would probably still jump at the chance if you asked her out, Harry,” said Ron, straightening his face. “So don’t feel down on yourself.”

“I’ll try to keep my spirits up, despite her loss,” said Harry. “Draco, can you take over this crumpet?” 

Draco took the iron prong with the crumpet at the tip, and Harry left to go to the loo. When he was quite sure Harry was gone, Draco turned to Ron. 

“Is he seeing anyone, do you know?” asked Draco. 

Ron just looked confused.

“What do you mean?”

“Not that it matters to me, or whatever, he can do what he wants, obviously,” said Draco.

“He’s seeing _you_ ,” said Ron, as if Draco were being particularly thick.

“Well,” said Draco, not wanting to explain that what he had with Harry was temporary, uncertain. “Sure. But I meant— anyone else?”

“Draco,” said Hermione, softly. “No.”

“Are you mental?” asked Ron. “When would he even have the _time?”_

“I don’t know, I just—look, forget I asked.”

Hermione came to sit next to him on the sofa and rested her head gently on his shoulder.

“Your crumpet’s on fire,” she said. And it was. 

  
Harry and Draco watched the thestrals bring the carriages back to the castle in silence. 

“I’ve enjoyed the holidays,” said Harry.

“It’s been all right,” said Draco. 

“I don’t want to do the whole sneaking out of your bed at sun-up thing anymore,” said Harry.

 _Well,_ thought Draco. _At least I already got the money. Good hustling, everybody._

“Fine,” he said, aloud.

“Are you sure?” asked Harry, which was, Draco thought, a confusing thing to ask someone you were breaking up with. 

“Whatever,” said Draco. 

“Because it may end up in the Prophet,” said Harry. 

Draco peered at him. Harry was still a little dishevelled, from messing around in bed all morning.

“What?” asked Draco.

“I’ll ask Seamus and Dean and Neville to keep it to themselves, but Seamus is a gossip, and you know how Neville gets if he’s been drinking,” said Harry. 

Draco blinked several times to try and clear his head.

“Potter, what are you _talking_ about?”

“Us sleeping together,” said Harry. They were standing on the steps outside the front hall as the first returning students approached.

“Yes, I gathered that. You said you didn’t want to anymore,” said Draco, tersely. 

Harry’s hand twitched forward, as if he wanted to touch Draco’s face, but he drew it back.

“No, I didn’t,” said Harry. “I wouldn’t have said that, because I definitely _do_ want to keep sleeping with you.”

“Then what the hell are we talking about?”

“I don’t want to keep sneaking around! It’s annoying, and, to be honest with you, I don’t like being your little secret!” said Harry.

“My— _my_ little secret?” repeated Draco in astonishment.

“Yeah! I know what you’re doing. You’re keeping your options open so you can still go and marry some respectable girl in four years.”

“I _told_ you I’m not doing that,” said Draco. “I’m— _I’m_ the secret! I’m _your_ secret!”

“No, you fucking aren’t,” said Harry, and pulled Draco into a heart-stopping kiss. 

Draco tried weakly to get away, but there wasn’t any point. The damage was done: all the students were returning, and Draco could hear the murmurs of shock spreading through the crowd.

Plus, he was never very good at breaking away from Harry’s mouth. 

“Okay?” asked Harry, into Draco’s ear. Draco nodded fervently, hoping that Harry would start kissing him again. Luckily, Harry did just that, and he didn’t stop as the students filed past them, hooting and whistling.

That night, Harry made no attempt to hide the fact that he was getting into bed with Draco. 

“Do us a favour, boys,” said Seamus. “Don’t have sex while we’re in the room, yeah?”

“No guarantees,” said Harry, and shut the curtains. 

Draco had been in a state of shock for the last four hours. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Harry got under the covers with him and wrapped his arms around Draco.

“You’ve been very quiet,” said Harry.

“You’re crazy,” said Draco. “You went mad in the war. You need help, probably.”

“Probably,” agreed Harry. “Are you okay?”

“The Prophet’s going to be awful,” said Draco.

“I was thinking about that. What if we gave an interview to the Quibbler?”

It was a little hard to breathe, but not, Draco reflected, in an unpleasant way.

“What about?” he asked. 

“I don’t know; _us_ , I guess,” said Harry.

“Whatever you want,” said Draco. Everything was surreal, as if he had already fallen asleep.

“Are you okay?” asked Harry.

“Stop asking me that,” said Draco.

Harry laughed into his hair. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m just happy. I want you to be, too.”

Draco closed his eyes. There was _something_ in his chest. He was tempted to label it anxiety, but really, if he thought about it, it was closer to _excitement_. 

“Nervous,” he said, because saying he felt happy seemed like a good way to bring down the wrath of the gods. Karma. Retribution, _something_.

“How jumpy, on a scale of one to ten?” asked Harry.

“I’m not _always_ jumpy,” said Draco. Harry squeezed him tighter, as if to remind Draco that he wasn’t answering the question properly. Draco sighed. “I’m not jumpy, right now. I don’t want to die.”

Harry beamed.

“Great,” he said.

“That doesn’t mean I’m _cured_ ,” said Draco.

“No, I know.”

“And I’m not going to throw myself off a bridge if we stop messing around,” said Draco. “The solution to my depression was not _your dick._ ”

“I know,” said Harry. “I’m just glad.”

And, in truth, Draco had felt the keen desire to kill himself less frequently, since Hermione first suggested they all become animagi. It still fell upon him from time to time—heavy weariness that seemed to lead to one inevitable solution—but less, less. 

He and Harry were working in the library together a few days later. Other than quite a lot of giggling, there hadn’t been much of a reaction in the school to the news that Harry Potter was fucking about with Draco Malfoy. People generally left them alone. 

Draco got up to find a book he needed on 6th century Anglo-Frisian runes. When he came back, he paused for a moment at the corner of the bookshelf, allowing himself to observe Harry, unseen. 

He was just wondering whether Harry would be willing to go back to the dorms early so that Draco could take off Harry’s shirt and examine his sexy brown shoulders, when a 7th year Gryffindor came and sat in Draco’s chair. 

“Sorry,” said Harry. “My boyfriend’s sitting there.”

————

The 7th year Gryffindor excused themselves and left, only to be replaced, almost instantaneously, by an incandescent Draco Malfoy. 

Harry smiled at him. Draco did not smile back.

“I heard what you said,” said Draco. He looked… not angry, exactly, although it would have seemed like anger had Harry known Draco less well. Now, he suspected it was confusion, and fear. 

“When?” asked Harry. 

“Just now,” said Draco. He looked furtively around and cast a _muffliato_. “When you called me your _boyfriend_.”

“Yeah?” said Harry. “Because you are?”

“I thought we were just fucking,” said Draco.

“We’re not fucking,” pointed out Harry. 

“Oh, don’t be so hetero,” snapped Draco. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry, who felt a little like a storm had hit him, bursting out of a clear blue sky. But then, that was Draco all over, and if Harry had to wrestle him into being sensible, he would. “But I don’t know why you thought that. I love you.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“I do!” said Harry. 

“You’re just…” said Draco. “You’re just… I don’t know. Rebelling.”

“Against _what?”_

“Society. I don’t know,” said Draco, flapping his hands. “ _Constructs_.”

“You’re supposed to love me, by the way. You’ve implied you do,” said Harry.

“Of course I do! That’s not the point!”

He looked so aggrieved that Harry reached out and took his hands. Draco watched him do it.

“The point,” said Draco, in a tone that suggested that he was forcing himself to be calm, “is that your little _phase_ isn’t going to last all that long, so making everything serious and official is just a waste of time.”

“It’s amazing how you manage to be a smug, superior arsehole even when you’re being heartbreakingly insecure,” said Harry.

“I’m not insecure,” said Draco, trying to free his hands from Harry’s grasp.

“You certainly have no reason to be,” said Harry. “I really, really like you.”

Draco finally managed to jerk his hands away and buried his face in them. Harry was seized by a sudden uncertainty.

“Draco,” he said. “You do actually like me back, right?”

Draco laughed into his hands, then let his head slide through them and bang onto the table. 

“Draco?” said Harry.

“Yes,” said Draco. “Obviously I like you back. I don’t even… fucking _obviously_.”

“You never say it.”

“I just did!”

“That you love me,” said Harry.

“Well, I do.”

“Yeah, but like. In so many words. You’re not the only one with insecurities, you know.”

Draco lifted his head.

“You called me your _boyfriend_ ,” he said plaintively.

“Do you not want to be?” asked Harry.

“Of fucking _course_ I want to be your boyfriend, you absolute nutter!” said Draco.

Harry smiled.

“Cool,” he said. “That’s settled, then.”

Draco looked ready to explode.

“It’s like you have _amnesia_ ,” he said. “It’s like you’ve completely forgotten who we are to each other.”

“You’re the annoying, pointy git I stare at during breakfast,” said Harry. “It’s really been pretty consistent.”

Draco put his head back on the table and groaned.

“You’re being very dramatic,” said Harry. “Don’t you have a Runes essay to write?”

“Yes,” mumbled Draco. So they got back to work, and didn’t talk anymore.

——————

The article, when it came out in the Prophet, was not nearly as life-ending as Draco had thought it would be. For one thing, the writer had interviewed a dozen Hogwarts students, who had all extolled Draco’s mysterious dark charm at length. For another, the Quibbler article had appeared the day before, so the Prophet couldn’t get away with too many untruths.

Draco secretly clipped out the Quibbler article and hid it under his mattress. It featured a picture of Harry and him grinning at each other. Although he and Harry had made Rita Skeeter want to tear her hair out with their awkwardness, she had printed their conversation with almost no narrativising. 

_Rita: So you’ve put the war behind you?_

_Draco: No._

_Harry: Yeah, basically._

_Draco: That’s ridiculous, Potter. People are going to think you’ve lost your mind. Which he has, by the way, Rita._

_Harry: Maybe. I really do love you, though._

_Draco: (indecipherable sound)_

_Rita: You’re in love?_

_Harry: Yep._

_Rita: You as well, Draco?_

_Draco: I should think that was obvious._

_Harry: You’re making him uncomfortable._

_Draco: I’m fine._

_Rita: This is a surprising turn of events. Did either of you ever have any idea that you might be suited to each other?_

_Harry: Never in a million years._

_Draco: Well, obviously I thought about it—oh. No. Never in a million years._

_Harry: You fancied me! I knew it!_

_Draco: I did not fancy you. I admired you, just like everyone else on the [redacted] planet._

_Harry: Did you think I was fit?_

_Draco: Is it time for us to discuss my feelings of remorse about my actions during the war, yet?_

_Rita: No._

_Harry: I bet you thought I was fit. I thought you were fit._

_Draco: (choking on pumpkin juice)_

_Rita: Well, Draco?_

_Draco: (very quietly) I didn’t find him unattractive._

  
It went on in that vein for several pages. Draco pulled it out from time to time, and reread the bit where Harry told him he loved him, so simply and easily. When Draco saw it written out like that, in ink, _“I really do love you, though,”_ it sometimes felt as if Harry was onto something, although Draco wasn’t sure what.

  
Harry came with him when he went to visit Goyle. He sat silently outside the visitor’s room, and stood when Draco came out.

“How was he?” he asked.

“Quiet,” said Draco. Goyle hadn’t said a word all hour. He was thinner than Draco had ever seen him. 

Harry didn’t ask anymore until they were back in the castle. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Draco shook his head. 

“On a scale of one to ten,” said Harry. He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to, Draco knew what he meant. 

He thought of the Astronomy tower, of getting close to the ledge and then taking one short step into nothingness. 

“I think I’m just tired,” he said. So they went to bed, and Harry told him about some absurd exploit of George Weasley’s.

“Do you ever miss your parents?” interrupted Draco.

“All the time,” said Harry. 

“I miss my father, when I see Greg,” said Draco. “It makes me think of visiting him, the summer of fifth year.”

Harry looked cautious. He attempted to start his sentence twice before settling on his phrasing.

“What kind of father was he?” he asked. Draco laughed.

“Oh, you know. Just your typical terrorist dad.”

“Right, right,” said Harry. He kissed Draco’s hairline. “You still get to miss him, though.”

“I know,” said Draco. 

Draco wasn’t sure he could pinpoint the moment it happened. When he was older he would describe it as a cloud lifting, as something sudden and miraculous, but at the time there was no noticeable shift. He simply realised one day that he was happy, and that he had been for a while. 

At first, he thought it was simply because spring came early to the castle that year, and the whole earth seemed awake. But as he stood in the Cloisters, grieving his mother without wanting to join her in the ground, he knew that something fundamental had clicked back into place. 

He didn’t mention it to Harry. There was a part of him that was vaguely embarrassed that he no longer wanted to off-himself. It made him feel as if he had been pretending, all this time, as if perhaps he’d been posturing as a tragic suicidal victim to get sympathy and attention. Intellectually, he still wondered if he deserved to live, although he no longer wanted to address the injustice, if that was indeed what his survival was. 

Colours became brighter. He spent more time with Ron. The two of them sneaked off to the barrow downs to smoke cigarettes. Ron didn’t like them, but he thought they looked cool. Draco didn’t think they looked cool, but he liked spending time alone with Ron. 

“Do you love Harry?” Ron asked him, one bright spring evening.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Hermione says no one said it to him, as a child. She reckons it fucked him up, a bit.”

Draco exhaled a lungful of smoke.

“He knows how I feel,” he said. 

“Yeah, see, I’m not so sure,” said Ron.

“I find it hard to say stuff like that,” said Draco. “I can never find the right moment.”

“Can’t you say it when you’re shagging?”

“Merlin. No,” said Draco, although he couldn’t explain exactly why not. Something to do with embarrassment, and purity, and fear. 

“Well, it bothers him that you haven’t said it,” said Ron. 

“Noted,” said Draco. 

It wasn’t until April that he found out about Astoria’s plan to save the manor. He had told her about Harry’s gift the moment she arrived back at Hogwarts, and thought that was an end to it. But one morning at breakfast, she handed him the Prophet, and he found himself looking at an advertisement of a neat boutique on Diagon Alley. _Misty Malfoy_ , said the lettering on the front, and then, beneath it, _Attractive Clothes for Ladies and Gentlemen._

“She wanted to put a whole paragraph about how she would be making people beautiful if they would just step inside, please, but I stopped her,” said Astoria.

“Misty,” said Draco, and she appeared at his elbow, twisting a tea towel nervously in her hands. Draco made room for her on the bench, between him and Astoria, not heeding the stares of his fellow students. 

“You is not angry, sir?” she said.

“Misty Malfoy,” said Draco. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“It can be changed, sir, if you think it is not correct,” said Misty. 

“It’s perfect,” said Draco. “I wasn’t too keen on being the only Malfoy. Do you think we could make it legal?”

“Legal, sir?” 

Draco nodded. 

“Like adoption, but for whatever you are to me,” he said. “So you’d inherit the manor if I die.”

“Oh, sir,” said Misty. 

“It’s a good picture,” said Astoria, “and the article is very flattering. You open next week, don’t you?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Misty. She turned to look at Draco. “Miss Astoria’s father is the principle investor.”

“Of course he is,” said Draco. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Astoria. “He jumped on the idea. Elf liberation is very stylish just now. And all this will do wonders to clear your name.”

Draco laughed again. Across the hall, Harry caught his eye, held up a copy of the Prophet, and gave Draco a nerdy sort of thumbs up. Draco shook his head at him, trying not to smile. 

  
—————

On the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, everyone got a bit weird. Draco had seemed better lately (that was an understatement: Harry had had some of the best months of his life hanging out with Draco, who rarely fell into silent glooms anymore), but Harry could tell he was struggling. He was unfocused in Potions and almost put the wrong type of fig leaves into their memory elixir. 

“Are you going to the Memorial Service?” asked Harry, as they packed up their things. Draco shook his head.

“It’s not for me,” he said. 

“Of course it is,” said Harry. 

Draco looked as if he had a lot of things he wanted to say in response to this, but he simply tightened his mouth and looked away.

  
“But you can’t skip the Memorial Service,” said Hermione. “You’re supposed to be making a speech.”

“Those people don’t need me,” said Harry, and although Hermione vocally disagreed with him, she did not persuade him. After lessons, everyone streamed towards the great hall for the service, but Harry went to find Draco. He didn’t have to check the map. He knew where he would be.

Draco wasn’t wearing the invisibility cloak. He stood with his head bowed by his mother’s grave.

“Hey,” said Harry.

“I love you,” said Draco, without looking up.

Harry steadied himself against the yellow stone of the cloistered walkway. 

“I love you too,” he said. When Draco didn’t say anything else, Harry came to stand by him. 

Above where Harry had carved _“Loving mother”_ on that dreadful day exactly a year ago, new words had been written: _Narcissa Malfoy._

“I never gave you back your wand,” said Harry. 

“I figured you were using it for weird sex stuff,” said Draco. 

Harry laughed and put a careful arm around Draco’s waist. Draco immediately leant into him, resting their heads together. 

“I like using my mother’s wand,” said Draco.

“You did such beautiful magic with it, when you buried her. I think that’s when I fell in love with you.”

“I thought you said it was when I stood up for Greg,” said Draco.

“I’ve been falling for you a long time,” said Harry. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be giving some I-defeated-the-Dark-Lord speech in the great hall right now?” 

“Nah. Too busy shirking my responsibilities,” said Harry. 

There was a long pause, in which Draco gently moved his fingers, back and forth, back and forth, on Harry’s arm.

“I really do love you,” said Draco, finally. Harry breathed in sharply; it was so wonderful to hear it baldly like that, like a fact. 

“That’s good,” said Harry, “because I have pretty long-term plans for us.”

Draco shifted his body away from the tombstone to face Harry. 

“How ominous,” he said, with a small kiss.

“You’re going to hate every minute,” said Harry.

“A fate worse than death,” said Draco, smiling.

They stood in the Cloisters for some unnamable amount of time before Draco tilted his head up to look at the sky.

“Good day to have wings,” he said.

Harry looked up, too. The pale blue was faintly tinged with pink, like a blush spreading into the corners of the afternoon. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Want to head up there?”

Draco broke away from Harry and knelt in front of Narcissa’s grave. He touched the tombstone with both hands, but Harry couldn’t see his face. 

When he stood, he looked serene.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good GRIEF do I hate writing endings. Thank you so very much for reading! And thank you to Alpha Exodus and Tacky Tiger and Cibee for listening to me moan about how much I didn't want to finish writing this. 
> 
> As always, if you liked the fic, do come and say hello on instagram where I put up reviews of the books I read at let_them_eat_books ! This fic was born in part out of me trying to process Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth, for instance, and I'd also just read a book by Rowan Hisayo Buchanan about depression in relationships. 
> 
> P.S. Black Lives Matter


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